by Beverly Long
People managed.
Just like Meg and Slater could manage this. Scott Slater ran this fancy hotel. He had the money to beef-up security, get some around-the-clock protection.
It wasn’t Cruz’s problem. And clearly, Meg wasn’t overjoyed to see him.
But, he realized, as he walked around the car, each circle making his stomach grip tighter, none of that mattered. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not if there was a chance that Meg was in danger.
The creep had been thorough. There was hardly a spot that hadn’t been damaged. Somebody had wanted to make a point.
“So who have you pissed off lately?” he asked, without looking at her.
“I don’t know. I’ve been through it a hundred times in my head and I can’t think of anybody. The police asked for a list of people that the hotel had terminated in the last year.”
It was a good place to start. When people lost jobs, they wanted somebody to blame. The Senior Vice President of Operations was as good as anybody. He’d seen stranger things in his fifteen years on the force. Hell, once a man was stalked for three weeks and ultimately killed because he’d taken somebody’s seat on the train. People were squirrelly.
Beat cops arrived before the in-house security, which didn’t give him a whole lot of confidence in the hotel staff. He and Meg told their story, everybody walked around the car a couple times, and a whole lot of pictures got taken. Security arrived five minutes later, trailed by Detective Harold Myers. The man was twenty pounds overweight, in his fifties, smelled like cigarettes, and his nose was too big for his face.
They told their story a second time, did some more walk-arounds, and then it was up to the main office to take a look at the security cameras. Cruz managed to keep his I-told-you-so to himself when it became clear that the location of Meg’s parking space was about fifteen feet beyond the scope of the camera. But he did want to kick her boss’s ass. How could the guy have allowed her to park somewhere where there wasn’t even a security camera after she’d received death threats?
But Slater was playing golf and Sanjoi Saketa, the skinny Asian from in-house security, didn’t seem inclined to page him. It gave Cruz only a little satisfaction that Meg wasn’t demanding that he do so.
Cruz drummed his fingers on the metal desk. “You do have a camera on the entrance and exit, right?”
“Of course,” Sanjoi said, sounding a little offended. “There’s one gate in and one out. The camera swivels between them, every four seconds.”
“Do employees have to swipe a badge to activate the gates?” Cruz asked.
Sanjoi shook his head. “No. Guests park here, as well. The gates are activated by a car pulling up.”
Myers shrugged. “It’s not the best system, but then again, I’ve worked this beat for a lot of years and this hotel has had very few problems. Let’s take a look at the tapes and try to isolate cars that enter and leave again quickly.”
“Is there a camera over the employee entrance?” Cruz asked.
Sanjoi nodded.
“Good. Can you produce a list of every employee who entered the building after Meg did this morning?”
Myers stepped forward. “The list should be given to me,” he instructed. “Detective Montoya is not here in an official capacity.”
Yeah. He was just the idiot ex-husband. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Meg.
“It’s not even three o’clock. I can’t just leave.”
“I thought you were going shopping?”
She was saved from having to answer because at that moment her boss breezed into the office. Cruz could have picked the man out of a lineup in dim lighting. The man’s blond hair was always perfectly combed and his six-hundred-dollar suits perfectly pressed. Hell, his golf pants had creases. The man had been Meg’s coworker in Chicago and when he’d accepted a promotion to San Antonio eighteen months ago, Cruz had been happy to see him go. He’d always thought the man was a little too friendly with his wife, although there had never been any reason to think that Meg reciprocated in any way.
He’d felt pretty damn stupid when Meg had followed him here six months later, leaving the same day she’d signed the divorce papers.
Slater ignored him, eyes only for Meg. “Are you all right? This is getting out of control.”
You think? Cruz put a proprietary hand on the small of Meg’s back and enjoyed seeing the tightening of Slater’s chin before the man put his game face back on.
“It’s been a while, Cruz.”
The man made friendly and extended his hand. Cruz ignored it. He pressed on Meg’s side with two fingers. “We should go.”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said, shaking her head. She moved a few inches away from him.
“And your car is trashed in the middle of a public parking lot. Give yourself a break. You’re going to need to contact your insurance company, get started on a rental.”
Her shoulders sagged. He hated seeing that. Still, he could tell by the way she was chewing on the corner of her mouth that she wanted to be the good soldier and finish out her shift.
But then, common sense, nerves, fatigue, whatever, finally won. She looked at Mr. Perfect. “I’ll be in early tomorrow,” she promised.
They walked in silence to Cruz’s white Ford rental car. Once inside, he couldn’t help himself. “I think he’s gotten shorter. And he might want to cut back on the Botox. Half his face didn’t move.” It was a cheap shot. The guy looked good. Polished. Smooth. Everything that Cruz wasn’t.
She rolled her eyes. “Just drive. Please.”
Other than turn here, turn there, it was the last thing she said to him for twenty minutes. Finally, she pointed to a group of three-story brick buildings that all looked the same. “My condo is in the middle building.”
Decent neighborhood. Not much character. Certainly not what he’d expected. “I figured Slater was the downtown loft type.”
She gave him a look that could kill. “I live alone.”
Cruz, who was rarely surprised, had to work real hard not to show that she managed to shock him. She’d followed the man halfway across the country. To live alone? Was it as simple as the two executives felt the need to be very discreet? Would there have been push-back from the corporate office if their relationship became known? He had a hundred questions.
But he didn’t ask. Didn’t want to admit how much he wanted to know. Had been a cop too long to show his hand.
The neighborhood was quiet. Just one old lady hauling a shopping cart behind her. Still, he went two more blocks and then turned around and came at it from the opposite direction. Nothing jumped out at him. There were a few parked cars along the road, all empty. He pulled into the lot, parked and turned to her. “Give me your keys,” he said.
She scowled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Okay. This was good. She’d evidently spent the drive regrouping. But what the hell did she expect? He was a cop. Her car had just been vandalized and now he wanted to check her apartment. He took a deep breath. “If you could be so kind as to give me your keys, I would be grateful for the opportunity to enter in advance of you in an effort to survey your living quarters and ensure that it remains an environment conducive to your ongoing safety. But only if it’s no trouble, of course.”
She let out an audible sigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
How could he have forgotten? She liked ending things. Quickly. “I guess I made an assumption that sleeping with you for six years entitled me to a little familiarity.”
Pink blotches suddenly appeared on her fair skin, just above the collar of her gray blouse, proving that some things never did change. When Meg was frustrated or angry, she didn’t hide it well. They used to joke about it, saying that she’d make a lousy undercover detective.
Was she remembering all the times they’d been more than a little familiar? How they made love in the park, with oblivious strangers just feet away? Or perhaps the weekend they moved into their house? E
ighteen hours. Every damn room. “Meg?” he said, his voice cracking.
She shook her head. “Just forget it. Please. Go do your thing. All I want is to be able to go inside my house and forget about the last three hours.” She tossed the keys in his lap. “Unit Six. The number is next to the door.”
He pointed at the car keys in the ignition. “It’s too hot to sit out here without the air on. Keep the car running. If you see or hear anything that looks weird, get the hell out of here. Call 911 on the way.”
She reached out a hand but pulled back before she touched him. “Cruz...be careful, okay?”
He nodded, not trusting his own voice. It was the same thing she’d said to him every morning for six years. Of course, the morning he’d been shot, she’d already been gone for six months.
When he’d woken up in the hospital hours later and she’d been there, the damn pain in his leg had suddenly seemed worth it. She was back.
And then she’d left again. And no amount of pain medication had been able to take that hurt away.
“Yeah, right,” he said. He closed the car door softly and walked toward her condo. When he got to her door, it looked like all the other doors. Almost.
It was ajar. Just inches. But enough that when he looked inside and saw the damage, he knew the truth.
Meg was in trouble. Big trouble.
Chapter Two
When Cruz opened the car door and slid inside, the edges of his dark hair were damp with sweat. He flipped the air on high, and turned to face Meg. “We’ve got a little bit of a situation here,” he said.
Meg’s stomach clenched. Cruz’s voice was soft, not giving anything away. But he wasn’t able to control the emotion in his eyes, as well. He was pissed.
“What?”
He put his hand on her arm. “Somebody was in your condo and they did a real job on it. I called Myers and he and his people are on the way. I want you to stay here until they work the scene.”
In her condo. A real job. She let out a deep breath and sank back into the seat. Cruz dropped his arm, giving Meg the chance she needed to wrench open the door and bolt across the street. He didn’t catch her until she was at the steps.
“Meg, damn it,” he said. “It’s bad.”
“I have to know,” she said. “Please.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. But please don’t touch anything.”
The cupboard doors were open but the shelves were empty, save one lone cup that was so far back that it had escaped attention. Shards of new blue Crate and Barrel plates strewn from one end of the ceramic countertop to the other made a crazy kind of confetti when mixed with the remnants of the sturdy brown stoneware that she’d had since college. The refrigerator door was also open, wrenched so hard that it now hung crookedly. On the top shelf, a plastic pitcher lay on its side, the orange juice pooled around it, contained by the upturned edge of the shelf. The eggs she’d bought two days ago had been thrown at the stove and yolk and shell and slimy egg white had dried on the black front.
On the small table that separated her kitchen from the living room, the plant had been upturned, sending potting soil flying. What she could see of the living room didn’t encourage her to look further. The cushions were still on the couch but each had a haphazard slice in the fabric. The entertainment center had been pushed over and the television was facedown on the carpet. It looked as if someone had hacked the back of it with an ax.
“I...I’ve been...wanting a flat screen,” she said. She forced a smile at Cruz and knew she’d failed when his mouth tightened even more.
“Well, then,” he said. He paused. “It’s gonna be okay, Meg. I promise.”
Her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. What if she’d been home? What if she’d been sleeping and had awakened to find this kind of madness looming over her?
Would she be dead?
Cruz stepped in front of her, maybe to get her attention, maybe just to block the room. “And you still have no idea who might do this?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said. This was so destructive, maybe even hateful. No one hated her.
Did they? Someone had, but it had been years ago. Twenty, in fact. Margaret Mae Gunderson had let everyone down. And there had been hate.
But how could anyone believe that the price she’d paid had not been dear enough?
A car door slammed. Then two more in quick succession. Cruz was already at the front door. “Myers and his team.”
It took them over two hours to work their way through the mess. Meg followed them from the living room back to the bedrooms. The spare room, which served as her office, had the least damage. The carpet was wet and her books sat in a sodden pile in the middle. The bucket the intruder had used to carry water had been tossed in the corner.
“Your bucket?” Detective Myers asked.
“Yes. From under my kitchen sink.”
“Tag it and bag it,” he said to the female officer.
The damage in her bedroom was much worse. Her clothes had been pulled from both her closet and drawers and sprayed with the horrible red paint. The bedcovers had been pulled off and her mattress had been sliced multiple times. The mirror above her dresser was cracked.
When she entered the bathroom, the smell almost knocked her back. Perfume bottles had been smashed in the sink. On top of the shards of glass lay more rotted fish. The mirror was cracked and across it, written in red paint, was BITCH.
Her knees felt weak and her vision narrowed.
Cruz grabbed her elbow and pulled her back. “She’s seen enough,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Detective Myers. He gently prodded her back to the kitchen and sat her down on the chair. “Put your head between your knees,” he said.
She waved him away. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
Detective Myers gave her three minutes before he followed her. “It’s probably hard to tell but do you know if anything is missing?” he asked.
“I...” She licked her lips and wished she had water. “I don’t think so.”
The man nodded. “To do this kind of damage, the intruder was here for a while. Maybe one of the neighbors saw something. My team will canvas the area. We’ll check the street cameras, too, and maybe we’ll get lucky there.”
“Thank you,” she said. He seemed like a good cop. Straightforward. She was going to have to tell him everything. Just in case. But not with Cruz standing there. Not with him in the same town. Even if Detective Myers swore to keep her secret, she knew Cruz’s ability to compel even the most reluctant of witnesses to speak up. Could she gamble that he wouldn’t prod and needle Detective Myers until the man surrendered the information?
“We dusted everything for prints,” Detective Myers said. “I’ll need yours and whoever else has been in your apartment for the last several months to rule them out.”
“I’ll get you the names,” she said. She’d had Charlotte and her mother over for dinner a month ago. That was it.
Detective Myers turned his attention toward Cruz. “I suppose you can account for your whereabouts since seven this morning?”
Cruz pulled his travel itinerary out of his shorts pocket and handed it to the older man. “Arrived at the airport, rented a car, drove I-95 to the River Walk. No stops in between.”
Detective Myers nodded, tucked the itinerary into his notebook, and put his pen in his shirt pocket. Meg had no doubt the guy was going to check it out, maybe look at a few more street cameras along Cruz’s route. “I’ll be in touch,” the man said to Meg. “I’ll let you know when you can start cleaning this up. Where will you be staying until then?”
“I...uh...guess I’ll stay at the hotel. In the summer we’re not as full as usual so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
The detective turned toward Cruz. “And what about you, Mr. Montoya?”
He needed to point the nose of his rental car toward Chicago and not stop until he ran into Lake Michigan.
“I’ll be at the hotel, too,” he
said.
Meg whipped her head in his direction. “That’s not necessary,” she said.
He waved away her argument, clearly not wanting to discuss it in front of Detective Myers. The older man looked at Cruz, then at her, speculation in his eyes. Evidently not seeing too much that disturbed him, he motioned for them to leave. “We’ll finish up here. I’ll be in touch.”
When they were back in the car, the seat was so hot that it burned skin. Meg tucked her skirt under her legs and gingerly reached for the metal clasp of her seat belt.
Cruz started the car and cranked up the air-conditioning. He didn’t pull out. Just sat in the driver’s seat, looking forward. Finally he turned toward her.
“Your car. This. You know I had nothing to do with it, right?” His voice cracked at the end.
She stared at him and wanted to tell him that of all the people in the world, he was the person she trusted the most.
Instead, she turned and faced out the window. Two beat cops were stringing up yellow crime scene tape across her door. “Of course not. I mean, it’s been a year,” she added, still staring at her condo. “And it’s not like our divorce was a nasty one.”
No. It had been very civilized. Probably because she’d insisted the two of them only communicate through their respective attorneys. Once the house had been sold, they’d split the proceeds and that had been the end of it. Very, very civilized. A perfect divorce, really.
“Look,” she said, turning partway back but not quite enough to meet his eyes. “It’s nice of you to offer to stay for a few days. But I’m sure it’s hard to get the time off. I’ll be fine, really. I just need to be a little more careful until they catch the person responsible for this.”
“I’m staying,” he said.
“No.”
He shook his head. “Last time I checked, you weren’t in charge of who gets to vacation in Texas.”
She pressed her lips together. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m looking forward to visiting Elsa and her family. They built a new house about forty miles north of San Antonio.”
