Saffron Nights

by Everly, Liz

  Jackson watched Maeve’s eyes as they carefully scanned those men in the room.

  “You said these guys are cops?” she said.

  “Oh, yes, these two here are from the FBI, those three over there are from the CIA,” he began.

  “And I am Roger Ledford, from Homeland Security,” one guy spoke for himself.

  Jackson whistled. “We must have stepped into something pretty wild.”

  “I think it’s best if we start from the beginning. Just tell us what’s happened to you,” Ralph said.

  Maeve and Jackson told them their story, including their theory about Snake.

  “This is interesting,” one of the CIA guys said. “We’ve been tracking Sam Everidge for years, never figured him for murder.”

  “In fact, he may have had you beat up or shot at, but we know he didn’t kill Alice or Paul,” another one said.

  “Sasha thought it was Yvette,” Maeve said.

  “One was a professional hit,” the man said, handing Maeve a photo. “Do you know this man?”

  Maeve reached for the picture. Her face drained of all color. She nodded.

  Jackson looked over her shoulder. “Holy shit,” he said. “Since when is Mark a hit man?”

  “According to British authorities, he’s not even British. He’s an American expat. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “What?” Maeve managed to say. “I’ve dated him for three years. I never had any problems with him like that.”

  “Until recently,” Jackson said. “He came all the way to Italy to see you because of Alice’s murder, remember? And he sort of pawed at you and didn’t want to leave.”

  She nodded, still looking as if she had been deflated, drained of color.

  “I had to step in and kick his ass out,” Jackson said.

  “He beat Alice, raped her, tortured her, left her dead for days while he took the next plane to Italy to console you,” the CIA guy said to Maeve.

  “How … horrid. And Paul?” Maeve managed to ask, while focusing on breathing. And calming her stomach.

  “Mark hired someone to off him, tried to set up Paul’s wife. We still have her in custody, but it’s for her protection,” he answered.

  “You seem to be the common denominator, Ms. Flannery. He seems to be killing people who know you. Any reason for it that you know?”

  “We were breaking up,” she said. “He was concerned about Jackson and I being in Mexico together. He seemed kind of jealous, suddenly. He was never jealous before—and I did think it was odd. So …”

  “All I know is the guy was freaky,” Jackson said. “Very possessive of her.”

  “Any idea where he could be?”

  “Absolutely none,” Maeve said. “His place in London?”

  “He’s not been there in weeks.”

  “Then I really just don’t know where he could be.”

  “Maybe the asshole is in Morocco with Snake,” Jackson said.

  The gentlemen in the room had no sense of humor and ignored him.

  “We have someone watching your apartment,” one man told her, then turned and looked at Jackson, who was looking out the window. “We have someone watching yours as well.”

  Chapter 61

  Maeve just wanted to go home. She felt foolish, humiliated, and horrified that she knew the man responsible for the deaths of Chef and Alice. Not only that, but it appeared that she was the cause of her death in a strange and twisted way. How would she ever see her way clear of this? She had been sleeping with Mark for three years and never knew he wasn’t even British. What else didn’t she know?

  Now he was wanted by the FBI and the CIA—and the NYPD for the murder of Alice. What the hell?

  If she were to be honest with herself, it was his wildness that had attracted her. He was a little “off” at times and she told herself it was his artistic temperament. But how could she herself be so “off” when judging people? The boyfriend that turned out to be gay, now the lover who turned out to be a murderer? Now there was Jackson, who had already told her more about himself than she had even asked either of those other two men.

  “Can we go home, now?” Maeve finally said.

  “Certainly. Please try to get some rest, Maeve. You’ve done a great job on all the copy I’ve seen,” Ralph said.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Jackson stood and followed her out the door, his hand touching her waist, registering with every person in the room—particularly their publisher, who tilted his head, pursed his lips, and looked away. They were a couple.

  They walked to the elevator, and once they entered it, Maeve reached for Jackson, fell against him.

  “Do you want me to come home with you?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “I mean, they are watching us, right?”

  “Screw them,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I just don’t want … us in the tabloids, you know?”

  “Maeve … I think that’s going to be unavoidable. Comes with the territory. Let me come home with you, just until you get settled in and calmed down. I know this has got to be weird for you.”

  Weird was right. Finding out your ex-lover is a murderer is downright strange. Butterflies danced in her stomach. She took a deep breath.

  They walked out of the elevator, surrounded by white marble floors and walls, potted plants and expensive paintings. The lobby glistened with class and success. Jackson grabbed her hand and pulled her into a stairwell. He leaned against the wall and pulled her into him. He cupped her face with his hands, sending tingles through her—the smoldering look he gave her caused liquid heat to shoot through her insides, to open wide for him, get down on her knees for him. Instead, she kissed him, leaned against his hip in the most excruciatingly perfect touch, the perfect place. Could she find satisfaction in a stairwell in their publisher’s office?

  She wasn’t thinking about Mark at all as she felt Jackson’s mouth, tongue, hands moving along the sides of her body. His stubbled chin rasping against her face. Mmm. Not thinking at all, just feeling the rush of pleasure.

  Voices interrupted. Someone was coming from upstairs. No. They slipped onto the next floor. The clatter subsided.

  Maeve was exhausted, yet she felt alive and awake, as he placed her hand on him—so hot, hard.

  “I want you …” he whispered. “I think you want me.” He reached for her breasts and thumbed her rubied nipples.

  “It’s not that simple, Jackson,” she breathed.

  “You and me … and this, it’s the most simple thing there is,” he said.

  Confused. Blood rushing. Heat. Hard cold stairs and walls, Maeve slid down his body, gave in to wanting him, slipped to her knees, unzipped his fly with her teeth.

  “Oh my, where did … you … learn that …” he breathed.

  “Shut up, Jackson,” she said, thinking some things are better not shared. “Lemme …”

  Another voice. Footsteps. Damn. She stood. He quickly situated himself and zipped his pants. They were coming this way.

  Maeve tucked her hair back behind her ears, straightened her shirt, wiped her mouth with her finger.

  “Let’s get together tomorrow,” she said. “My place for dinner.”

  He was still leaning against the wall, as if he couldn’t move. His blue eyes were glassy with want. He nodded, just as they heard the footsteps come closer. She walked out of the door, knees shaking slightly, thighs trembling. One foot in front of the other.

  Chapter 62

  Okay , so he’d followed her home—at least until she was at her apartment building. Then he found his way home to his own apartment. Never mind he lived in Soho and she in the Village. It was quite a haul.

  But he didn’t think Maeve was thinking clearly—which was a switch. He realized she was in danger. Mark was still at large. Who knows where he could be?

  Jackson dropped his camera bags on his couch and walked into the kitchen—everything was neat and tidy, just the way he had
left it. Was he more hungry than he was tired? And damn, of course, there was no food, after being gone for two months. But he opened his fridge to find a plate of cheese and salami, some fruit—with a card, signed by Lulu. Ah, Lulu, how thoughtful. She was one of the few people who knew his itinerary—a photography student who sometimes cleaned his apartment for him. Good kid. He knew she could be trusted with his key.

  He pulled the plate of goodies out and ate—oh God yes, this is just what he needed. Um, er, along with bedding Maeve. He thought of Sasha, the beautiful addicted call girl; he thought of his mother in prison for drugs. He’d have to give her a call tomorrow. He’d not talked to her since way before they left so abruptly for Mexico.

  His cell phone interrupted his thoughts.

  It was Sanj.

  “Hey,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m coming to visit,” Sanj said. “It’s actually a research gig, but I thought maybe you and Maeve would like to join me. I’ve rented a house at Cape Cod.”

  “I’ll talk with her about it,’” Jackson said. “Oddest thing. Cops are searching for her ex. They think he killed Chef and Alice. “

  “Good God,” Sanj said. “She must be devastated. I know how much she cared for Chef. Hey, you know what, speaking of all the weirdness …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I looked at the substance again under the microscope and ran some other tests.”

  “And?”

  “It turns out it wasn’t coke at all.”

  “What?’

  “Yeah. It looked like it and it gave the same tingle to the tongue. But there was something not quite right about it. So I looked further into it.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s some kind of designer drug, something that doesn’t even really have a name at this point. It mimics coke, but supposedly, it’s like coke on steroids, but doesn’t have the bad side effects. “

  “Aha,” Jackson said, thinking of his night of sex with Maeve. “Makes sense.”

  “It’s up for approval in seven different countries right now to be used in drug rehab.”

  “Interesting,” Jackson said, biting into a piece of salami. Sasha and Chef were on to something, then. They knew about it. She was being honest with them. That made Jackson’s heart hurt just a little. The memory of her death was still so raw. After what she did to Maeve, he didn’t care one iota for her—but nobody deserved to die like that. “I mean that’s sort of what Sasha said.”

  “Hey, is Maeve there?”

  “No, she went back to her place,” Jackson said. “I’ll see her tomorrow night.”

  “Why is she alone with that asshole out there?”

  “The cops are watching her place and mine, as a matter of fact. So we are pretty safe.”

  “The cops? Are you an idiot? This crazy man, Mark, is out there somewhere and you know he’s going to want to see Maeve.”

  “Yeah, but if she’s being watched, he can’t get to her.”

  “You Americans trust the police much more than we do,” he said and laughed. “If that was the woman I loved, I’d not leave her until he was in custody.”

  A chill moved through Jackson. “I, ah, followed her home to make sure she got to her apartment building. You know her. Ms. Independence.”

  But after they said good-bye, the chill clung to Jackson as he ate the last of the food Lulu left for him. The one person he trusted with his apartment key. Who was the person Maeve may have trusted? Could Mark have a key? Could he have already been inside her apartment when she came home?

  What was her home number again? He reached for the phone.

  Chapter 63

  When Maeve opened her apartment door, she felt like something wasn’t quite right. Her apartment was empty—and it was the first time she’d been alone in days. Maybe she was just not used to the quiet. Maybe she was completely and utterly freaked out. Damn, she deserved to be. She flopped down on the couch. Oh, God forbid she should ever turn into one of the women who hated to be alone—but for some reason, she was creeped out.

  The light was on over the stove, providing a soft light in the room. Kitchen and living room combined: how she had loved the idea when she moved here from Virginia. It was so “New York.”

  A stack of mail sat on the table next to her—she reached up and yanked the chain on the lamp so she could check out the mail quickly. As exhausted as she was, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while.

  She reached over and grabbed a handful of envelopes and saw the shoes.

  Mark’s brown oxfords.

  She clutched her chest and searched her brain—had he left those the last time he was here?

  The shoes.

  Surely she would’ve set them aside, remembered they were here. Something. But, she was a sloppy housekeeper. They could have been there for months and she didn’t realize. The weirdness of her slovenly housekeeping providing a comforting thought was not lost on her.

  The shoes.

  The open window.

  She was sure she closed it before she left. If she hadn’t, Jennifer would have.

  Something was definitely not right.

  Had Mark been here?

  She stood and walked toward the kitchen part of the room—nothing amiss.

  Maeve took a deep breath as she moved into her bedroom.

  Mark was sitting on the edge of her bed, champagne bottle in his hand and a big grin on his face. “Welcome home, dahling.”

  “Jesus! You scared me, Mark,” she managed to say. “Wh-what are you doing here? How … ?”

  “Remember? You gave me your key, love,” he said.

  That accent of his. Now it sounded so fake. How could she have fallen for it?

  “Oh yes, yes, I remember,” she said, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

  He patted the bed for her to sit next to him. “Come, let us celebrate.”

  “Mark, I—” Her stomach heaved.

  “Now, Maeve. I know you said you didn’t want to see me again, but now you’ve had time to think about it. I mean, you were so distraught from losing Alice and Chef. I’m sure it was the stress talking,” he said.

  She needed to keep him calm—and had to keep herself calm first. She just wanted to tell him to fuck off. But she remembered the officers talking about how he had tortured Alice, raped her, left her to die—and she remembered the way he pawed at her in Italy. If ever you needed those relaxation techniques, now is the time. Take a deep breath.

  “Yes,” she willed herself to say. “I have been thinking about us, Mark. I just don’t know what to say. I’m a bit confused. I suppose I need a little time.”

  “We’ve always gotten on so well,” he said and raised an eyebrow.

  Was she going to have to sleep with him in order to pull this off? To be safe? The thought was dizzying. Her stomach twisted as he handed her a full champagne glass. The smell made her rush for the bathroom, where she threw up everything she’d eaten for the past twenty-four hours.

  “Are you okay?” he said coming up behind her.

  She turned around, grabbed a towel, and wiped her face in front of him. Attractive. But it couldn’t have happened at a better moment. She nodded. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bug or something. I really need to get some rest, Mark. Do you mind?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Should I leave?”

  “You don’t have to,” she said, thinking maybe getting sick was the best thing that could have happened. “I would hate to see you come down with this.”

  Within moments, he was on the phone with a nearby hotel.

  She nearly breathed a sigh of relief. And then the phone rang.

  She was lying down on the bed and told Mark just to let it go—the machine could get it. But it was Jackson.

  “Hey!” he said “Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. I’m kind of worried about you. I wonder if crazy Mark is around. Call me.”

  “Crazy, hey?” His face was beet red.

  Maeve shrugged. �
�Jealousy.”

  His eyes squinted and hard lines appeared on a fleshy face. “I hate that bastard. He’s fucking you, isn’t he?”

  “No, no, no,” Maeve said, tears unwittingly splashing on her face. Goddamn, get ahold of your emotions. You don’t want him to know you know. She began to tremble.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m cold,” she said, getting under the covers. “I told you I’m sick. Why don’t you just leave?”

  “Should I get a doctor?” he said, as he started digging in a bag of his. “Did you pick up something in Morocco—besides a nasty prostitute?”

  When she turned to face him, he pinned her arms down with his legs, whipped out handcuffs, and attached her wrists to her bedpost.

  “Nice, Mark, you going to fuck a sick woman who might puke on you?”

  “Who said anything about fucking you? You don’t deserve me, whore!”

  She whipped her legs up and caught his head between them and squeezed. “Don’t call me a whore!”

  He wrangled his way from out between her legs. “You think I’m not prepared for this? I am.” He pulled out some ropes and duct tape. She tried to fight him off with her legs, her body, but he taped her mouth shut and pulled out a gun, which stilled her.

  He tied her legs up and she began to whimper with pain. The handcuffs were tearing into her skin. The tape was pulling at the flesh around her lips. He placed the gun along her cheek—she felt as if she’d be sick again and tried to will it away. She’d die gagging on her own puke. She felt her body take over and shake from head to toe.

  “You like my gun, whore?’

  She felt fuzzy, not sick, but the room began to melt. The curtains her mother made her. The finger painting she had framed—made by Carly. The family pictures. All seemed to fade, melt, as she gasped for air and sweat poured out of every pore of her body.

  “Answer me!”

  She nodded.

  “You like it enough to fuck it, whore?”

  What did he say? Was he going to … ? He started pawing at her jeans, rolling them down over her. Her knees pressed tightly together.