L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent

by Style, Linda

  She shifted her gaze to the left, then right, to where they’d built the snowmen. That was weird. The snowman family looked as if they’d had something dumped on them…something dark…dark red.

  Fear sliced like a knife down her spine. She took out her cell again and punched the on button. No signal. Not even static. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  Cait. She had to protect Cait.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JORDAN PARKED BEHIND a black sedan in front of Vincento’s Italian Restaurant in Studio City, DeMatta’s favorite meeting place. From previous cases, he knew most of DeMatta’s hangouts. The whole department knew. He glanced at the license plate. Nothing familiar, but he made a note to check later.

  He checked the time. Ten p.m., DeMatta’s dinnertime, according to Al “Squeaky” Milano, the department’s Mafia snitch. Jordan had been here before. From the outside, the place looked like every other little Italian restaurant in the Valley, and made claim to the best Italian food in L.A. Having been inside before, he knew the layout—a long rectangular room, elegant. White linen tablecloths and napkins. Most important, he knew the location of the exits, two doors, one on the side and one in back.

  Buttoning his suit jacket, he strode inside.

  Apparently it wasn’t a busy night; most of the tables were empty. Or else the four men at the back were having a meeting and had kicked everyone out. Jordan saw DeMatta right off.

  The mobster saw him immediately, too, and waved him over.

  “Detective, what can I do for you this fine evening?”

  “I’d like to talk to you. Alone.”

  One gesture from DeMatta and the other guys left the table.

  Jordan sat across from him. A tall man with wide shoulders and dark hair graying at the temples, he wore a designer suit and a crisp white shirt with a purple tie. He looked like a Donald Trump clone with better hair. If Jordan didn’t know better he’d think DeMatta was the CEO of a major corporation. Jordan flipped his shield.

  “I know who you are, Detective.”

  “Then you know why I’m here.” Jordan held the man’s stony gaze.

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “I heard you have a message for me, but your messenger had a problem getting the job done last night.”

  DeMatta’s expression altered slightly. Questioning, now. The man almost seemed surprised.

  “The problem being?”

  Given DeMatta’s response, Jordan wasn’t sure he wanted to say. Was it possible DeMatta didn’t know? If so, that meant someone else in the organization was giving orders without the boss’s knowledge. It could mean problems within the ranks.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that someone wanted Jordan off the investigation and that Dutch Greene worked for DeMatta. On the other hand, DeMatta might be blowing smoke. “He got pinched before he could give me the message. Your man Fratianni got him out on bond.”

  Jordan could see the wheels turning. “Ask Dutch,” he suggested.

  “Dutch!” DeMatta yelled out. When Dutch came over, DeMatta said evenly. “I hear you have a message for Detective St. James you weren’t able to deliver.”

  The big guy stepped back, his gaze darting. “I’m in the dark here, Frankie.”

  “Tell me about last night.”

  Dutch shrugged. “I got in a bar fight with some drunk cop. He called the screws and I called Fratianni.” He glared at Jordan. “No big fucking deal.”

  Yeah, no big deal. If DeMatta believed the creep.

  The bells on the front door jangled. Jordan looked up. Another one of DeMatta’s thugs.

  The man sauntered toward their table.

  “You’re late,” DeMatta said, his displeasure undisguised.

  “Traffic.” The guy looked at Jordan.

  “Nicholas here is from New York—” DeMatta looked at Jordan “—and he’s still getting used to the urban sprawl. Thinks we’re not as organized as those East Coast guys”

  The subtext in DeMatta’s words told Jordan there was unrest in the ranks. He was well aware of the rivalry between New York and L.A. mobsters.

  He studied the man. Nicholas. “I didn’t get the last name.”

  The other man smiled. “I didn’t give it.”

  Tall, blond and good-looking, he fit Rita Valdez’s description. Not to mention his name was Nick.

  “Detective St. James was just leaving,” DeMatta said, then dismissed Jordan with a wave of his hand.

  Not likely. Jordan leaned forward, hands flat on the table. He locked eyes with DeMatta. Though his insides burned with anger, he kept his voice low. Even. “If your thugs have any more messages for me, tell them to deliver them to me, not my partner.”

  In his peripheral vision he saw one of the goons at the other table lumber to his feet. DeMatta signaled a negative and the guy dropped back in the chair. Nicholas didn’t flinch.

  Still looking at DeMatta, Jordan said, “I’m reinvestigating the murder of Anna Kolnikov.” He took a photo from his inside pocket and handed it to the other man. “You ever meet her, Nick?”

  Jordan watched for subtle signs of recognition, but Nick didn’t blink, just kept his steel gray eyes locked with Jordan’s.

  “Never saw her before.”

  “He pulled out another of Kolnikov’s body in the alley. “No? You don’t remember her?”

  The guy gave a scant glance at the photo. Shook his head.

  “You sure?” Jordan wanted him to know he didn’t believe it. And he wanted DeMatta to know he wasn’t intimidated. “Because I have a witness who says differently.”

  DeMatta shot to his feet, his chair scraping noisily across the wood floor, and standing shoulder to shoulder with Jordan, said, “You have nothing, Detective. And we both know it.”

  Jordan waited. “You sure about that?”

  The mobster stuck two fingers in his tie to loosen it at the neck. “Yeah. I’m sure. You got a witness, then, bring her on.” He looked at Nicholas and laughed. “Until then, get the fuck out of here.”

  Jordan kept a poker face and headed for the door, as if duly chastised. But on his way out, he turned. Gave a broad smile of his own. “I didn’t say the witness was female.”

  ***

  Laura’s heart pounded wildly as she again punched in 911 on her cell phone. Still nothing. She couldn’t go downstairs to investigate because she couldn’t leave Cait up here alone. But if someone wanted to hurt them, why leave such a cryptic warning in the middle of the night? They’d been there alone all day, outside for a good part of it. Plenty of opportunity.

  But all the rationalization in the world couldn’t quell her terror. She glanced around the room for something to serve as a weapon. Seeing nothing, she went out, found the lock pick above the door, then locked Cait’s door behind her, and with only the hall nightlight as her guide, hurried to the next bedroom. She couldn’t turn on any lights and risk disclosing her location.

  But the between the yard lights and the hall light, she could see easily, and from what she could see, the room didn’t look like a guest room. There were personal things lying around—a Dodger’s baseball cap, a pair of hunting boots. And the bedding was rumpled, as if someone had slept there recently.

  She crossed to the walk-in closet, found the light switch on the wall, slid the door shut and flipped on the light. One side was lined with shelves of sweaters and sweatshirts. The other side was filled with drawers. She pulled open one after the other, lifting socks and underwear as she shuffled through, hoping to find something to defend herself and Cait. A gun, maybe.

  Nothing. Her panic grew as she opened the last drawer and lifted some Tshirts. Damn!

  Shoving a hand through her hair, she opened the door, switched off the light, and charged from the closet—into a solid mass of flesh.

  The man grabbed her arms, squeezing so hard so she couldn’t move. “Can I help you with something?” His voice was sharp. Menacing.

  Overpowering terror ripped away any reserve she might’ve
had. A scream started low in her throat, but he slammed her against the wall, one arm pressed against her throat, cutting off all sound. She couldn’t breathe, much less scream.

  Every bone, every muscle in her body went into fight mode, but when she tried to move, he increased the pressure against her neck.

  “What are you doing here?” he spat out.

  It took her a second to realize he’d asked a question. But she couldn’t answer with his arm cutting off her air supply.

  Just as she thought she was going to pass out, he eased his hold a fraction. “Answer me.”

  “I—I’m a guest.” A whisper was all she could manage.

  He reached around and flipped on the closet lights…and she recognized him immediately. Jordan’s friend at the airplane hangar. Then, looking more closely, she realized he was the other boy in the photographs, now an adult. He had to be Jordan’s brother.

  “Jordan brought me here.”

  He snatched his arm away and backed up, staring at her, recognition dawning. “What the hell.” He took a step back, then forward, as if he didn’t know where to go. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He turned away, then turned back again. “I didn’t know it was you… Jordan could’ve told me…. Damn him.”

  Laura swallowed. Jordan didn’t tell him because he didn’t tell anyone. And she couldn’t tell him she was hiding out. “My daughter is sleeping in the other room. If we make too much noise we’ll scare her.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He lowered his voice, shoved his hands into his pockets and started pacing. “Where’s Jordan?”

  “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  He stopped, rubbed a hand against his chin, eyes narrow. “What were you doing in here? This is my room.”

  Rubbing her neck, she braced against the wall, feeling some of her tension dissipate, but not entirely. “I heard a noise outside. I was looking for something to protect myself.”

  His unchanged expression said he didn’t believe her.

  “If Jordan brought you here, why would you think you needed to protect yourself?”

  She shrugged. “I heard a really loud crash. I didn’t know what it was. I think I kinda freaked.” The second she said it, she realized it was partly true. She’d freaked—about everything. Everything but the snowmen.

  After a couple of uncomfortable moments in silence, Harry said, “Sounds magnify in the mountains. A car backfiring sounds like a war zone.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel better.” She smiled at his attempt to assure her everything was fine. Jordan would’ve done the same.

  He tilted his head from side to side, as if getting out a kink. Then he said, “I’m going downstairs for a drink. Want to join me?”

  It was the last thing she wanted to do, but maybe it would show goodwill on her part. “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  After he went downstairs, she checked Cait again, then went back into her room and threw on some sweats instead of her robe and nightshirt.

  On her way downstairs, another thought hit her. It was 3:00 a.m. What was Harry doing arriving here in the middle of the night? Something didn’t feel right. But right or not, it was his house and she was glad to have another human being with her. A strong man. He was Jordan’s brother, he had to be trustworthy.

  Downstairs, she glanced around. Everything seemed in place. Harry must have turned off the alarm system, she realized. Before heading into the kitchen, she went to the window in the great room and looked out. The wind had blown drifts over the snowmen and she couldn’t see any markings. She wondered if she’d really seen what she thought she had. She’d check later, and until she did, she saw no reason to confide in Harry.

  When she walked into the kitchen, he was sitting at the center island on a barstool, two glasses of wine on the counter. She slipped onto the stool beside him and took the glass he offered. “Thanks.”

  “So,” Harry said. “I didn’t know Jordan was—he seemed to struggle for the right words “—involved with anyone.”

  His comment was unexpected, and she hesitated to answer. Even though she and Jordan had been intimate, they weren’t involved. “Jordan brought me here because I was…having some problems and needed a place to get away. We’re just friends.”

  “Oh.” His eyelids lowered seductively. “That puts things in a different light.” His gaze roamed over her and he surprised her by gently slipping a hand over hers. “You mentioned a daughter. Are you married?”

  With his face so close to hers, his eyelids at half mast and reeking of alcohol, she realized he was drunk. She pulled her hand away. “No. I’m a widow.”

  He sloshed down the rest of his wine. “Sorry.”

  “It was a few years ago. I’ve gotten on with my life.”

  “But not with Jordan.”

  It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer.

  “I’m surprised. Jordan rarely lets the good ones get away.”

  The implication wasn’t lost. She shifted on the stool, as if getting comfortable, but moving back a little. Half joking, she said, “Are you saying Jordan is a player?” Not that it mattered. Just because they’d had some intimate moments didn’t mean she had a lock on his heart.

  Harry laughed. “That would be an understatement.”

  Her chest constricted. She cleared her throat. “Well, I guess that’s his business, isn’t it.”

  “Sometimes,” he drawled, bitterness heavy in his voice. “But not when he gets it on with his brother’s wife.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I want any more wine. I’m going up to check on my little girl and then turn in.”

  He laughed. “Just like all the rest. Jordan can do no wrong. Well, I’ve got news for you. He’s not the upstanding guy you think he is.”

  Her nerves bunched. Instinct told her to defend Jordan from the verbal assault, but then how much did she really know about him? He’d lied about the cabin. What else had he lied about? It was obvious Jordan and his brother had some issues…which needed to be solved between the two of them.

  “I don’t think anything, one way or the other. And you might want to have some coffee instead of more wine.”

  He gazed at her with a puzzled expression. Finally he said, “Okay. Can you get me some?”

  She gritted her teeth, went to the counter behind her and lifted the coffeepot. Still some left.

  What he’d said bothered her. More than it should. Even though it was probably just the booze talking. He couldn’t mean Jordan had had an affair with his own brother’s wife.

  She poured coffee and stuck the mug in the microwave. “How long are you staying?” The thought of being here for any time at all with Harry made her nervous.

  “As long as you want me to, sweetheart.”

  “And if I don’t want you to?”

  He shrugged. “I’m gone.”

  “Jordan will be back tomorrow. Did he know you were coming?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t know a thing. I needed a quick break. Tomorrow, huh?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” Laura turned to go back upstairs, but felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She stopped.

  “I didn’t mean all the stuff I said about Jordan earlier.”

  Without turning, she said, “I didn’t believe it, anyway.”

  He was suddenly quiet, as if he hadn’t expected her curt response.

  She pulled away and started up the steps.

  “But I meant the part about him and my wife.”

  Laura stopped in her tracks, her grip tightening on the rail.

  Harry gave a croak of a laugh. “I guess I should say my ex-wife, shouldn’t I. Thanks to Jordan.”

  She turned.

  “Surprised to hear the upstanding Jordan St. James has some flaws?”

  She felt as if a tight band had formed around her chest, making it hard to breathe. “We all have flaws, Harry. And what’s the old saying…people who live in glass houses…?” She took a deep breath and put a foot on the nex
t step. “I’m going to sleep now.”

  “Sure,” he mumbled, “ignore the truth—just like everyone else….” His voice trailed off.

  Laura hurried upstairs and went into Cait’s room, closed and locked the door. She stood there for a moment, her mind a kaleidoscope of questions. Was it Harry who’d dumped something on the snowmen? But what reason would he have to do such a thing? But then she didn’t really know what had happened to them. It could be nothing, or something easily explained. She hoped.

  Most of Harry’s blathering she could shrug off, except that one thing—had Jordan slept with his brother’s wife? Was Jordan the cause of Harry’s divorce as he’d said?

  Was she ignoring the truth about the kind of person Jordan was?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE INSTANT JORDAN pulled into the driveway he saw the thick tire tracks in the snow. Someone had been here. Someone with a big vehicle, like a Hummer. As he drove closer, all his senses went on red alert. Ahead, the side door to the garage was open…no, not open, it looked as if it had been bashed in. What the— Oh, God. Laura. Cait.

  He cut the engine and sprinted toward the house, drawing his .38 on the way. He stepped into the garage, gun raised and scanning as he went. The lock on the splintered door hung half off. A crowbar lay on the floor. Cold fear gripped him.

  Control. Emotions under control, he repeated his mantra.

  He crept along the side wall toward the door to the mudroom, turned the knob and then burst inside, both hands on his weapon in ready stance.

  Laura stood in front of him, her eyes blown huge with fright.

  He glanced behind her and kept moving forward. When he reached her, he pulled her behind him but kept the gun at ready. “Are you okay? Where’s Cait?”

  “I’m fine. And Cait’s upstairs studying. What’s going on? Has something happened?”

  After taking another look around, he lowered his weapon. “You tell me. The garage door…”

  “The door? What do you mean?”

  He pulled her out to the garage. “What happened?”