The doorknob fell off into her palm as she turned it, nearly giving her a heart attack, but that was nothing compared to the pings of its screws hitting the concrete.
She winced, hoped no one had heard, and then pressed her face to the crack, spying through the one-inch gap with her left eye.
The angle was bad. She realized the room she was peering out of was located in the back right corner of the shooting range. At the front of the range were the shooters’ stations, each framed with a set of metal walls braced together with a narrow shelf—the place where each shooter would stand to aim down the range.
Beyond the stations, she could see a group of men and women. She counted roughly fifteen individuals, but couldn’t see Drake. He was blocked by one of the metal stations.
She needed to get closer, if for no other reason than to hear him better, but the idea of padding in front of the targets made her stomach twist with knots.
Instead, she widened the door a little more and strained to overhear the meeting.
“C & P has gone too far,” said Drake. “This is our town, and while they operate on the outskirts of it, rarely setting foot within it, yet controlling each and every one of us, they have been taking ninety percent of the profit, while we, every one of us in this room, shoulder ninety-nine percent of the risk. Enough is enough!”
The men and women cheered.
“The time is now,” he went on. “Their entire shipment is hidden in every nook and cranny in Rock Ridge. If we act now, if we seize the shipment, we can sell it ourselves. It will be our first attack in the war to usurp C & P.”
The group of men and women fell into silent consideration, and Kate could sense their rising tension. They were scared.
“To explain the ins and outs of this plan, I give you...Becky Langley.”
Kate gasped, but quickly slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. It had been her highest hope to find Becky Langley, but she hadn’t trusted that she would. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched Jason’s fiancée, the young woman who had been leading a double life until she disappeared, saunter confidently towards the group.
Becky had always been one to dress in feminine skirts and dresses. Kate used to regard her as a soft spoken girly-girl. But that was not the woman readying to address her followers. Becky looked tough. Dressed in biker gear—tight, black jeans and a gray tank top under a black leather vest—she clearly meant business. Kate spotted a holstered gun under Becky’s right arm. Her blond, wavy hair was slicked back into a high ponytail.
Kate realized she had stopped breathing, she was so eager to hear Becky speak. She widened the door and tilted her ear towards the room, enthralled.
“They know what we’re up to,” she announced, her sharp eyes scanning the group, making eye contact with each and every member. “They killed Grant for a reason, to send us a message. That message is that any one of us, no matter how high or low on the totem pole, can be killed if we step out of line.”
The voices began to murmur and Becky lifted her hand to silence them.
“But they still trust us. They have to. We represent the legs on this table, and without us, the whole organization will collapse. Drake’s correct. They aren’t in Rock Ridge, but their product is. Now is the time, the only time, we’ll have the opportunity to take back what’s rightfully ours.”
“How?” asked one of the men from the back of the group.
“We need one group to move the product to an undisclosed location. Then we’ll lure Colombia & Partners to it with promises of making a deal. Once we have them, all of them, we will surround them. And assassinate.”
There were gasps and fearful grumbling from the group, and again Becky raised her hand to quiet them.
“We have the firearms to pull this off,” she assured them.
“So do they,” one of the women countered.
Then another man asked, “What will the second group do?”
Becky locked eyes with him and stated, “Keep the order.”
Kate could tell by the murmuring that followed that Becky hadn’t made herself clear.
“Colombia & Partners was effective for so long because they knew how to keep Scott York distracted. I was tipping them off in that regard, as well. I got close to Scott by getting close to his stepson. Scott’s easy.” She paused for a beat, and Kate felt suddenly sick at what might follow. Her worst fears were confirmed when Becky said, “Scott’s wife, however, is not. I thought framing her son Jason would get her out of our hair.” Becky made a noise of frustration, balling her hands into fists. “But I’m not convinced it has. So the second group will move into Plan B.”
“I thought Plan B was the shoot-out,” voiced one of the women.
“It was,” Becky admitted. “But it was only phase one.”
“How many phases will there be?”
“As many as it takes to kill her.”
Kate thought she might faint. She felt light-headed and nauseous and furious. Her heart was racing and her pulse throbbed so loudly that she could hear the pounding in her ears. She told herself to run, get the hell out of the shooting range and drive away before anyone could spot her truck, but something inside her wouldn’t let her flee.
She needed to know who was running Colombia & Partners. It wasn’t enough to learn that Becky would soon be running things. Rock Ridge would soon face an all-out war at the time of this supposed assassination of Colombia & Partners. She needed to gather as much information as she could in order to stop it.
If only she could throw her voice and shout from the back of the group the very question she needed answered.
Suddenly she cursed herself for her stupidity. Hoping it wasn’t too late, she grabbed her cell phone and tapped quickly through her apps until the voice recorder function filled the screen. She hit record and angled her cell through the crack, but Becky’s voice had fallen silent as the young woman began organizing the group into teams, presumably to assign members to either the group in charge of collecting and moving the drugs, or the one designated to murdering Kate.
Her gut told her they wouldn’t stay at the range for long. She had to get out of here.
She tried to step softly through the storage room, but in her haste she knocked into a stack of boxes. Grabbing them before they could fall, she broke out into a cold sweat and let out a stuttering breath. She righted the stack and then rounded into the middle aisle. The rear entrance door was straight ahead, and when she eased it open, scanning the darkness, she knew there was no one out there.
Running, she made her way around the corner of the building and sprinted to the front of the shooting range, coming to a halt at the corner. Cautiously, and straining to hear even the slightest noise, she spied around the corner.
The parking lot was empty except for parked vehicles and the entrance door was closed. Her gaze locked onto her truck and her heart punched in anticipation of running and jumping in behind the wheel, turning the engine, and getting the hell of out of the parking lot.
She visualized herself doing it, and then, without thinking, barreled ahead.
But she didn’t peel out of the parking lot. She crawled, rolling at a snail’s pace with the headlights off.
It wasn’t until she turned onto the road that she knew with every fiber of her being that if she drove off, went home or to Jared’s or Carly’s or even dared to barge into the precinct, it would be at the expense of exonerating her son.
She couldn’t merely announce that Becky was alive and planning a deadly assault in the heart of Rock Ridge.
She had to find out where Becky was staying and shut this thing down once and for all.
Willing herself to be brave, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road and angled her rearview until the shooting range bounced off the mirror.
What was her plan? What was her plan?! She needed to come up with a better idea than idling at the side of the road. If Becky drove out of the parking lot and spotted her “Mrs. Fix It” truck, it
would be all over.
Kate scanned the dark road and realized there was a dirt road fifty yards behind her truck. She put the car in drive and swung a U-turn. When she reached the dirt road, she eased down it and quickly maneuvered a three-point turn so that her truck was facing the main road.
Drake’s Firing Line was to her left. To the right and a good twenty yards down the road was a flicking streetlamp.
She kept her eyes glued to the entrance door of the shooting range. Becky would be unmistakable whenever she passed through the door. If Kate could spy her, and see which direction she drove off in, then she would have a prayer of following her.
Minutes passed, then an hour, but every time she wanted to give up and drive off, some part of her refused.
Finally, people started exiting the shooting range. Kate leaned over the steering wheel, widening her eyes and searching for Becky to break from the fray. As the men and women climbed into their vehicles and began driving off, she held her breath and ducked beneath the dashboard when some of the cars drove past.
She peered out again and saw Becky pop open the driver’s side door of the black SUV.
My God.
Becky had been the one who shot up Kate’s house.
The black SUV drove in a wide arch around the parking lot. When it reached the road it turned right, which meant it wouldn’t pass Kate’s truck.
Debating whether she should pull out now and trail the SUV or not—the last thing she needed would be for another group member to drive up behind her, recognize her truck, and aim to kill her—Kate squeezed the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip.
But it was now or never. The greatest rewards often came with the deadliest risks. She pulled out into the road and hit the gas, though she didn’t turn on her headlights.
Checking her rearview mirror in panicked alternation with the road ahead to be sure no one was driving up behind her, she kept behind the SUV by about fifteen yards.
Eventually, Becky turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue where traffic flowed steadily. Kate came to a complete stop at the stop sign, letting three cars go by, and then flipped her headlights on and pulled onto the avenue.
“Where the hell are you going, Becky?” Kate asked out loud. She couldn’t see the black SUV, but kept her eyes peeled for when it turned off the road, if it ever would.
Soon the black SUV darted across the double yellow, veering left onto Philadelphia Way, a side street that connected the east side of Rock Ridge to Main Street.
Kate made the turn, but flipped her headlights off so as not to draw attention. Was Becky going into the center of town, or merely cutting through on one of the least traveled roads?
She got her answer when Becky pulled another left then hooked the first right. Becky was rounding the heart of Rock Ridge and soon headed east again.
If Kate didn’t know better, and she wasn’t sure she did, she would think Becky was aware she was being tailed and was trying to lose her. But when Becky pulled up to the curb in front of a modest colonial house in the middle of the suburbs, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Becky hadn’t suspected she was being followed.
As Kate eased along the curb more than a block away from the SUV, her heart skipped a beat. She knew that house. She knew who lived there.
The editor in chief of the Rock Ridge Tribune.
Eric Demblowski.
Chapter Five
“Scott, you really need to give me a call.”
Kate hung up and tossed her cell phone beside her on the couch. It had been her fifth voice message to Scott. She had left two last night. The first when she was waiting in her truck to see if Becky would come out of Eric Demblowski’s house and drive off to another location—she never did. And the second message she had left the moment she stepped inside her house. She would’ve driven anywhere else, except with Becky tucked away at the reporter’s house, she felt certain she would not be attacked while driving home.
She had nightmares throughout the night and woke with a start, grabbing her cell phone to check for missed calls from Scott. When she had realized there were none, she left her third message.
Now, after so many messages, she was sure Scott wouldn’t get back to her. She didn’t get the feeling it was because he was busy.
She wanted to scream in frustration, but it would do her no good.
As she drank coffee and waited for the sun to rise beyond her living-room window, Kate attempted for the millionth time to wrap her head around the unlikely alliance between Becky Langley and Eric Demblowski.
And then it hit her. Becky’s disappearance had been headline news. The drug ring and string of murders had been even more captivating material for the Rock Ridge Tribune. As more and more reporters had ventured into Rock Ridge to cover the developing stories, Eric had become important, directing the various journalists and getting a ton of credit for their scoops.
She couldn’t believe his deviousness.
Did his wife, Celia, know about this?
Kate wouldn’t think so. Celia had been married to Ken Johnson for decades before the detective’s tragic murder. Celia was a cop’s wife first and foremost. She was moral and ethical, and had often stood by her first husband, supporting him to no end.
And yet, Celia lived in that house with Eric. She had to know something.
Kate had taken five pictures of Becky after the young woman had hopped out of her SUV, making her way to the front door. Interestingly, Becky had knocked and Eric had let her in, indicating that she didn’t have a key.
As Kate scrolled through the photos on her cell phone, she pressed her mouth into a hard line. Becky was a mere blip in the frame—a small and dark figure. Kate had been too far away when she snapped the shots. It didn’t look like Becky. It didn’t look like anyone, just the shadowy figure of a woman who was dressed in a way Becky wasn’t known for.
But the last photo might prove useful. Eric had been illuminated under the portico. The house address was clearly marked to the right of the door—456. But all it showed was that Eric had let someone into his house last night. It was hardly a smoking gun.
Kate startled when her cell began vibrating in her hand. Bart Vaughn’s name flashed across the screen. Why would he be calling so early?
“Good morning,” she said, noticing how raspy her voice sounded.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I’m glad you’re up.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she grumbled.
“I’m going to be meeting with Jason first thing, in about an hour.”
“That’s good news.”
“And I’ll have an idea about his bail later today.”
“Thanks for letting me know. You’ll keep me posted?”
“I will. I’m also calling because I set up our first interview. Can you make 2:00 p.m.?”
If I’m not dead by then. “Of course.”
“Great, I’ll have Anna e-mail you the details.” After a brief pause, he added, “Try to wear something... Try not to wear those overalls. How about a sweater, a long skirt, clogs.”
He wanted her to dress in a sweater when it was in the upper nineties?
“Sure,” she said, hoping that wherever the interview took place would have air conditioners blasting. “I’ll see you then.”
After hanging up, she glanced out the window. The sun was piercing the horizon. She had only worked a half day yesterday for Justina, so she knew she had better get a jump on things.
She set her coffee mug in the sink and then made her way into the bathroom where she took a quick shower. As she dressed, being sure to wear her overalls with shorts, she also pulled a sweater from the rack. She didn’t exactly have many skirts to choose from, but she found a gray one that looked motherly enough, and stuffed the garments into a duffel bag, which she tossed onto the passenger’s seat as soon as she climbed into her truck.
The morning unfolded slowly. Kate was sure to lock herself inside the apartment at Justina’s building, a safety measure she resented having to take. She
kept away from the windows as she continued to tile the floor. Her cell phone remained at arm’s reach, but Scott never returned her call. She debated e-mailing the photos to him through her cell, but reasoned it wouldn’t get his attention since the images looked nothing like Becky.
As she padded into the kitchen to refresh her coffee mug, her cell phone began vibrating and she rushed to it. But when she picked it up off the marred wooden floor she had been working on, she saw that it was only Justina.
“Good morning,” she said.
“You mean good afternoon,” Justina corrected. “How’s it coming along over there?”
“I’m making headway.”
“I’d like to show the apartment in a few hours.”
Kate hesitated, looking around the studio apartment. “If they don’t mind seeing a work in progress.”
“If you could consolidate your tools and materials, that would be enough,” she suggested.
Kate agreed and then asked, “If it’s not too much trouble, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I need to get my house appraised....”
“You’re not moving, are you?” she asked.
“No! Nothing like that. It’s for Jason, or really his attorney. I might need to put my house up as collateral on his bail bond.”
“Oh,” said Justina, considering. “I can help you out.” Then she spoke in a low tone, adding, “I can even fudge the numbers a bit. Do you know what the value needs to be?”
Groaning, because she knew it would be impossible to pull off, she said, “A million?”
“Yikes. Well, I’ll have a look. When should we do this?”
“The sooner the better. Tonight?”
They arranged a time, and after hanging up, Kate dropped her cell into the front pocket of her overalls.
She could use a little fresh air and the rear entrance door had been nagging her all morning. If she wanted to keep herself safe, working in a building where anyone could slip in through the back wasn’t her smartest option. So grabbing her tool kit, she made her way out of the apartment, through the hallway, and down a set of stairs. At the bottom was the rear door, which was still propped open with a block of cement. She pulled the block inside and shoved the door shut, then began to assess the best way to keep it locked.
Mrs. Fix It Mysteries, Season 2 (5 Cozy Mystery Books Collection) Page 43
