Fearless Pursuit (Off The Grid: FBI Series Book 8)

by Barbara Freethy

  "Well?" her father snapped.

  "What?" she asked, realizing she'd lost track of the conversation.

  More thunderous and incredulous anger entered his gaze. "Seriously? You're not even listening?"

  "I don't know why you're so upset. What are you afraid I'm going to find?"

  He gave her a hard look. "The truth."

  A shiver ran down her spine. "Why would that be bad?"

  "Because it can't possibly be good. I don't know if my mother died of a drug overdose or was involved with someone who killed her with those drugs, but neither scenario will make anyone feel better."

  "Maybe she wasn't involved with that person. Maybe she was just a victim. And whoever killed her has gotten away with it."

  "He's probably dead by now. It was a long time ago."

  "Or not," she countered. "If I can raise enough doubt, if I can put together a movie that gets public attention, maybe the police will reopen the investigation. Perhaps new witnesses will come forward, no longer afraid after so much time has passed. With a spotlight back on Grandma, someone might remember something that they didn't think was important at the time."

  "This isn't about a new investigation. This is about you wanting to exploit your grandmother's death for your own selfish purposes."

  She flinched at his hard words. "That really isn't it."

  "You're going to deny that you don't think this movie will make your career?"

  "Well, no. I think it could be a big break for me. But I also want to tell her story, because it needs to be told with an ending that makes sense. And I want to do it for Grandpa." She paused. "Why do you hate her so much?"

  He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You know why. She was a terrible mother. She abandoned me and my father for her career. She left us long before she was killed. And the woman who replaced her was amazing. Linda became the mother I never had."

  "She was a sweet person," she agreed. "And that's why Grandpa didn't want to look into this until she passed. He didn't want her to feel like he was still hung up on Natasha."

  "She was definitely his blind spot. He couldn't see straight when she was around. He probably never would have let her go, if she hadn't cheated on him, hadn't forced him to realize she didn't love him anymore."

  "Even if she stopped loving Grandpa, I don't think she stopped loving you. The way she talked about you in her journals—"

  He held up a hand. "I don't want to hear about her journals. I don't care what she wrote down. I lived my life with her. I know what it was like, how she acted, who she was. So, what's it going to take for you to stop? How about I invest in a different project for you, one that you can write, produce, direct, whatever you want? I'll fund it completely, as long as the subject isn't my mother."

  "You're trying to buy me off?" she asked in shock.

  "I want you to have your break. I just don't want to see my mother's life on the screen. It will start everything up again—all the questions, the rumors, and the scandalous secrets. I run a company that's built on my stellar reputation."

  "I don't think Natasha's past will hurt your reputation. You were a teenager when she died."

  "I'll write you a check tonight, seed money to get started on another idea." He walked around his desk to find his checkbook.

  She couldn't believe what he was doing. She would have been thrilled to have him believe in her enough to want to invest in a project, but not like this, not because he wanted to shut her down.

  "No, Dad. I'm not going to take your money, and I won't walk away from this story. I promised Grandpa that I'd find the truth."

  "He had no right to ask you to make that promise."

  "Maybe not, but he did, and once I started reading Natasha's journals, I got caught up in her life. She had a lot of secrets. Maybe no one really knew her. She talks a lot about wearing a mask, about how much easier it is to be an actress, to play a part, than to be herself. She talks about her childhood in Russia, how poor they were, how much they struggled, how she never thought she'd get out of that cold, dark neighborhood. She talks about the loss of her mother and then later her father, and how it felt to be sent to a strange, new country. These are stories I never heard before." She took a breath. "Have you heard them?"

  "Maybe a long time ago; I've forgotten."

  "I'm trying to understand your point of view, Dad. I know she hurt you, and you're angry with her. But she was your mother. Don't you want to know—"

  "Stop. Just stop. Do whatever the hell you're going to do, Maya. Just leave me out of it and go."

  "I just have one question."

  "I'm not going to talk about her. You'll have to get your information from someone else," he said tightly.

  "I wasn't going to ask you about her, but about Sylvia Graham."

  "Who?"

  "Sylvia. She's the club manager at the Firebird now. She said she knew you when you were a kid and when you were in your twenties, she caught you spray-painting graffiti on the door of the Russia House."

  His face paled. "That was a long time ago."

  "It doesn't sound like something you would do."

  "That's because I changed right after that. I'd jeopardized my future because of my anger with my mother and her Russian friends. I could have been arrested. I wasn't hurting my mom; I was hurting myself. I never went back there. And I never saw Sylvia again."

  "She said she'd promised not to tell anyone, and she'd kept that promise until tonight, when she told me."

  "I'm ashamed of what I did. I'm sorry she told you."

  "I'm not. It made me realize you haven't always been perfect."

  "Don't let what I did be an excuse for you to do something crazy. I'm not perfect, but I try to do the right thing. And so should you. My mother destroyed my life once. Now you're going to use her to do it again."

  "I'm not trying to do that, Dad."

  He shook his head, giving her that hopeless look that seemed to be reserved just for her. "My offer to fund a movie project for you is only good until tomorrow. Think about it tonight. Think about what you really want. And whether the past is worth risking your future for. Now, go home."

  He turned his back on her, and she walked to the door, slipping out of the house without running into her mom, who she was quite sure had been listening to every word. But like always, she preferred to stay far away from any unpleasant tension. It was just as well; she didn't need another fight, another person telling her to stop doing what she needed to do.

  As she drove across town to the small two-bedroom house she rented from her grandfather, which coincidentally, had once belonged to Natasha, she clung to the thought that the truth would not hurt her father any more than he'd already been hurt. In fact, perhaps it would set him free. He could only see his mother through a very narrow lens, but perhaps that lens wasn't giving him the whole picture.

  Or…she thought with a sigh, she might be overly optimistic and a little naïve.

  Was she wrong to dig up the past? Would it be better to take his offer and come up with a script and a movie idea that had nothing to do with her family?

  But her gut told her this was the story she needed to tell. She could stop at any point. If things got too bad, that's what she would do. But for now, she would push forward. Hopefully, Wallace would call her tomorrow. Or Sylvia would pass her message on to Constantine or Alexander. She'd really just started. She couldn't end this yet.

  A few minutes later, she turned down her street and pulled into the short driveway in front of her garage. She took her keys out of her bag, stepped out of the car, and walked up to her porch. She was about to open the door when a car came down the street and pulled in behind her vehicle, the headlights illuminating her in a bright light.

  Her nerves jangled with alarm. It was after eleven. Who the hell was this?

  A man got out of the car. "Maya?" he said.

  She started, squinting as he moved out of the shadows. It was the blond bartender from the club. "What are y
ou doing here? How did you know where I lived?" She dug around in her purse, pulling out her phone. "Stop right there. I'm calling 911."

  "You don't need to do that. I was just going to drop this in your mailbox." He came up the stairs, stopping a few feet away. In his hand was the envelope she'd given Wallace earlier.

  "What are you doing with that?" she asked in surprise.

  "Wallace Jagger asked me to return it to you. Your address was inside."

  "Why would he give it to you?"

  "He said he couldn't bear to read what was inside."

  "So, he didn't read it?" she asked, disappointment running through her.

  "No."

  "I can't believe you drove all the way over here tonight."

  "He was insistent that I do it on my way home and not wait until tomorrow. It felt like the envelope was burning a hole in his pocket."

  "I can't believe he didn't even look inside." She paused, giving him a speculative look. "Did you?"

  "Yes," he admitted. "But I didn't know what I was reading."

  "Didn't you stop and think maybe it was private?" She was a little surprised he was being so honest about snooping.

  He shrugged. "Yeah, but I still kept reading. Seemed like a lot of love stuff to me. I don't know why he was so scared of it."

  A sound came from inside her house and she started once more. As her gaze moved to the door, she realized it was ajar. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "Someone is inside my house."

  Chapter Five

  "Step back," Jax ordered, his lazy, easygoing manner vanishing in a second. As he moved toward the door, a large figure came barreling onto the porch shoving Jax into the potted plant on the porch.

  Then the man was on her, grabbing for her purse.

  She instinctively held on to it, not sure why, because he was huge, and he was wearing a ski mask over his face.

  Jax jumped back into action, tackling the man from behind, and fists flew as they pummeled each other. She ran toward her car and jumped inside, locking the doors. She pulled out her phone with a shaky hand as she watched Jax battle the burglar.

  "What's your emergency?" the dispatcher asked.

  "Someone broke into my house. He's attacking my…my friend."

  "What's your address?"

  She gave her address and then hit the horn hard a couple of times, hoping the noise would scare the man away. The dog next door started to bark. Lights came on at the house across the street. The guy shoved Jax and ran down the street, disappearing around the corner.

  To her shock, Jax went running after him.

  She jumped out of her car. "What are you doing?" she yelled. "The police are coming."

  He ignored her. Her neighbor, an older—and very nosy—woman stuck her head out the front door. "Maya?" Ellen Simpson questioned. "What's going on? You woke me up."

  "Someone broke into my house," she said as a police car came down the street.

  "I'm going to get John."

  She didn't bother to answer as two officers exited the patrol car. One was an older man with a slow gait. The other appeared to be in his early twenties and almost didn't look old enough to be a cop.

  "You called 911?" the older guy asked.

  "Yes. Someone broke into my house. He attacked my friend and then he ran that way." She pointed to the corner. "My…my friend went after him." She didn't really know why she was calling Jax her friend since she barely knew him, but she didn't know how else to describe him.

  "Was anything taken?" the younger officer asked.

  "I don't know. I haven't been inside yet." She blew out a breath of relief as she saw Jax jogging back toward the house. "There he is. That's my friend."

  "He got away," Jax said, his breath still coming hard. "He jumped into a van parked a block away. I got a partial plate—J72. I couldn't see anything else."

  "What color was the van?" the older officer asked.

  "Gray. I think it was an older Dodge Caravan."

  "And the man who got in it? Was he alone?" the officer continued.

  "He got behind the wheel," Jax answered. "I didn't see anyone else. He had on a ski mask. Was over six feet. Couldn't tell you what color his hair was."

  "His eyes were brown," she said, remembering his angry gaze on her. "It's weird he didn't have anything in his hands when he came out of the house. But he tried to grab my purse."

  "We had a similar break-in last night about three blocks from here," the older cop said. "Could be related. Anything else you can tell us?"

  She slowly shook her head. "No."

  "Let's take a look inside your house."

  She nodded and followed the officers and Jax into her home. The thief had been messy. The drawers in the desk in her living room had been pulled out and tossed on the floor. Same with the cabinets under the TV, and her bedroom showed similar signs of a search. The police took notes and asked her repeatedly if anything had been stolen, but she couldn't say what, if anything. She didn't have much to steal.

  "I had three twenties on the kitchen counter," she said finally, realizing those were gone. "I was going to pay the gardener tomorrow. The cash is gone. But my laptop is still on the table."

  "We probably interrupted him," Jax told her.

  "You got lucky," the older cop said.

  "Do you think you can catch the person who did this?" she asked.

  "With that partial license plate and hopefully some luck with a security camera in the area, we might be able to do that," the officer replied. "Your front door lock is broken. You'll need to get someone out here to fix that."

  "I will."

  "Call us if you have any other problems," the officer added.

  She followed them to the door, watching as they answered questions from nosy Ellen and her usually disinterested husband, who seemed surprised that his wife had actually stumbled upon something real. She shut the door, not wanting to deal with her neighbors now.

  Turning around, she looked straight at Jax and realized his eye was swelling. "You're hurt. Your eye is bruised."

  He put a hand to his face and winced. "It's fine."

  "Let me get you some ice."

  "It's nothing."

  "It's the least I can do. You got hurt because of me. I should have given him my purse. I don't know why I didn't."

  "Instinct told you to hang on to what was yours."

  "Then you jumped him. You gave me a chance to get away."

  "I was glad you took it."

  "Why did you go after him?" she asked curiously.

  "I thought I could at least get a license plate."

  "You're very brave."

  "Heat of the moment," he said with a shrug. "It was probably a stupid idea."

  "I can't believe this." She felt suddenly weak, and she moved over to the couch, taking a seat.

  Jax sat down in the chair next to the couch, his watchful gaze on her face. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm just realizing how scary that was. I don't understand why he chose my house to break into. I don't have much worth stealing. All that trouble for sixty bucks?"

  Jax's gaze darkened.

  When he didn't say anything, she felt a new tension. "What are you thinking?"

  "I don't know. It doesn’t seem like a simple thief would have made such a mess."

  "You think he was looking for something besides cash?" she asked, her gut twisting with that thought.

  "Maybe."

  "Like what?"

  His gaze met hers. "You were making people nervous at the club tonight. I heard Jagger's son and the owner of the club talking about you causing trouble. And Wallace was certainly upset by what you'd given him."

  "You think someone at the club did this?"

  "I don't know. Where else have you been? Who else have you been talking to about the mysterious death of your grandmother?"

  "I've been to a few places the last couple of days. I've talked to probably six or seven people."

  "The pages you gave to Wallace were photocopies. Wh
ere are the originals?"

  "They're in my grandmother's journals."

  "And those are?"

  "Not here," she said, her heart racing as she saw the truth right in front of her. "Someone wanted the journals."

  "Possibly. Where are they?"

  She started to answer and then hesitated. She didn't know Jax. Should she tell him? Could she trust him? He had risked his life to help her. But still…

  "It's fine," he said, before she could answer. "You don't have to tell me where they are. Just tell me if they're somewhere safe."

  "I think so."

  "Tomorrow you'll need to make sure."

  "Yes, I will." She clasped her hands together, then unclasped them, shifting on the couch as her body still raced with adrenaline, making her feel reckless and scared.

  "Tea," he said.

  "What?" She gave him a blank stare.

  "Do you have any calming tea? Decaffeinated, chamomile, lavender…"

  "You want tea?"

  "I don't. But I think you might need it."

  She gave him a long stare, not quite sure what to make of him. He was bruised but still ruggedly handsome. And he was calm, far calmer than she was. But he'd been fighting for his life only a few minutes earlier, saving someone he didn't even know.

  "Why did you stay?" she asked. "Why did you jump that guy?"

  "I didn't want him to hurt you," Jax said matter-of-factly.

  "You don't know me."

  "I don't have to know you to try to help you."

  "A lot of guys would have run."

  "You don't hang out with good guys then. Do you have a boyfriend, a husband, someone you want to call to come over?"

  "No."

  "What about family?"

  She sighed at that question. "They're not happy with me right now."

  "Because of your quest?"

  "Yes. I went to see my father after I left the club. He was angry. He doesn't want me digging into his mother's life."

  "Why not?"

  "It's complicated. And if I call them, they'll worry."

  "Maybe they should worry. Maybe you should be worried. If someone wants to know what's in Natasha's journals, and you're standing in the way, they probably won't hesitate to take you down."