Bratton raked another handful of hair behind her ear. “That’s a good idea.”
“Officer Thurston? Ma’am?”
Roxy pushed off the floor to face Officer White. “Yes?”
“We’ve got a name to go with the plate Mrs. Bratton’s neighbor gave us.”
Thank the Lord for nosy neighbors. “Who does it belong to? Who did this?”
“A known felon. Garrett Randall.”
Damned if Isaiah wasn’t right again. Roxy placed a call to him.
He answered at one ring. “FBI Special Agent Zaroyin.”
The deep baritone pitch in his voice caught her by surprise. “You were spot on,” she told him quietly, her hand cupping her mouth so as not to panic Bratton, who stood now with Officer Humphrey. “Randall busted up this place. Don’t come back. Get those kids to the safe house after you pick them up. I’ll meet you there with Bratton.”
“Understood,” he clipped. “Be careful.”
“Always,” she replied, for some reason touched that he’d said what he’d said. That he might care. “See you soon.”
Didn’t that sound cozy and a little too damned familiar? Shrugging away from the slippery slope of feelings she seemed to be tumbling headlong down, Roxy turned on Mrs. Bratton. “I want you to get up and pack bags for yourself and your kids. Do it quickly. We’re leaving in ten.”
“Why should I?” she asked, her gaze darting over the mess in her home. “This is my house.”
‘Because I told you to,’ nearly snapped out of Roxy’s mouth, but she said, “We’re relocating you and your children to a safe house in the Northwest District. Step on it.”
Bratton chose that moment to make a stand. “No,” she declared, tossing her head and making that red mane of hers tumble like a crimson waterfall over her shoulders. Want to bet she used that ploy to get her way when she was a kid, too? Wasn’t working on Roxy. “I’ve worked too hard to make this house a home. Okay, it’s not much, but if whoever did this comes back—”
“Don’t you get it? There is no if. Randall did this.” Roxy gave it to her straight. “And he did it in broad daylight with your neighbors watching. He’s not afraid of you. And another thing…” Roxy took a firm step into Bratton’s comfort zone. “You want to tell me how he knew where you lived? How he knew which bank you’d be at this morning?”
“He… he was here?” Bratton blinked those big gray eyes like she was processing the cold, hard facts. Or planning her next ruse. Or coming up with another useless, feminine trick. How stupid could this chick be? Flirting doesn’t work on female cops, only dumb jocks.
“Things don’t happen by coincidence, ma’am. Of course he was here. Now do as I asked, because we’re leaving whether you’re ready or not.” Nodding to the officers, Roxy asked them to, “Help her pack.”
“But Officer Thurston,” Bratton whined.
Did she just stamp her foot at me? Roxy wanted to roll her eyes.
“I can’t leave without Nugget.”
Annoyed that she didn’t know who Nugget was by now, Roxy cocked her head at her annoying charge. “Without who?” This Nugget Dude had better be a gerbil.
“My kids’ dog.” Bratton turned to look down the hall. “I can’t leave him behind. It’ll break Darrin’s heart.”
Shit! Roxy glared at this new bit of info, and the time it had taken Bratton to suddenly worry about her son’s pet. Fur babies were right up there with children as far as Roxy was concerned. If anything ever happened to her longhaired Siamese, Toy, she’d be a wreck for months. But why had Bratton suddenly pulled the sympathy card out of her sleeve? Why not a helluva lot sooner if Nugget was so important to her kid? Not that it mattered. Roxy’d never leave a man behind, not even the four-legged kind.
“Then pack some kibble,” she told Bratton. “The dog’s coming with us.”
It took Humphrey and White five long minutes of calling, searching, and canvassing the backyard to come up with Roxy’s next problem of the day-from-hell that… Would. Not. End. Not only was Nugget a ginormous golden retriever with more hair than an Ewok, he was gone.
Chapter Seven
Roxy was late, and Isaiah had one of his feelings. Standing at the drawn blinds behind bulletproof windows at the safe house one block off Embassy Row, he made small talk with Kitty and Darrin Bratton while the seconds ticked into minutes. Then half an hour.
Still no Roxy.
“So you’ve got a dog?” he asked Darrin as he kept one eye on the busy street.
The boy was a miniature Candace while his sister must look more like her father, Bob Bratton. Darrin’s hair was coppery- red, but not as bright as Candy’s. His skin as creamy white with a healthy dose of cinnamon freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks, and his lips were as full. He had his mother’s gray eyes. A boyish cowlick topped his forehead, turning the peak of his buzz cut into a tiny whirlpool that must have been a bear to tame on school picture day.
He’d brought a rubber ball with him, his dog’s ball. After the first hundred or two bounces, Isaiah had persuaded him to put it in his pocket so it wouldn’t get lost—or tossed far, far over the fence. The kid knew how to irritate his sister. Isaiah too.
Kitty, on the other hand, was a pre-teen who sported long and straight dark brown hair and a healthy tan. Thick black lashes fanned her cheeks and accentuated her chocolate brown eyes. Candy had better get ready for trouble. The day would surely come when her daughter would be a heartbreaker boys couldn’t resist.
“Did they find him yet?” Darrin asked, his eyes glimmering. The poor kid hadn’t stopped fidgeting since Isaiah retrieved him from his friend’s front door. “They gotta find him. He’ll be scared, and he’s a big baby when it’s raining and it thunders, and…” He took a shuddering breath, smoothing his fingers over the lump that was the dog’s ball deep in his pocket. “They gotta find him, Mister.”
“They will,” Isaiah assured him again. “Trust me, those police officers know their job. They’ll bring Nugget with them.” I hope. “So tell me why you named him Nugget. Is he as heavy as gold?”
A timid smile curled the corners of Darrin’s mouth. “No, sir. It’s because—”
“He’s the color of gold, dummy,” Kitty said with a roll of her eyes. “Duh.”
“I was gonna say that,” Darrin cried, elbowing his sister in the ribs.
“Ouch, you little worm,” she said. “That hurt. I’ll tell Mom.”
“Kids,” Isaiah said softly. “I know you’re worried, but let’s keep our heads, okay? Your mom will be here soon and she’ll be hungry. Let’s surprise her with a nice, hot dinner.”
Kitty’s nose wrinkled. “Us? Fix dinner?”
He winked at her. “Sure. This place is stocked with everything you can imagine. What’ll it be? Spaghetti and meatballs? Grilled chicken? Soup and salad?”
“I prefer shrimp Alfredo,” Kitty said loftily, her nose in the air like a typical teenager.
Of course you do. “Do you know how to make it?” Isaiah asked, because he sure didn’t.
Her shoulders lifted. “Sorry. Cooking’s not my thing. Isn’t that your job?”
“I’m a guy, remember.” Isaiah chuckled on his way to the spacious kitchen, complete with a gourmet selection of cookware, appliances, and ingredients. It’d sure be nice to find a couple pouches of frozen shrimp Alfredo in that side-by-side freezer. He jerked the freezer door open. Damn. No such luck. But that big bag of pre-cooked frozen shrimp could prove useful. “I know a few things. Come help. Many hands make dinner taste better.”
The kids followed. Darrin scrambled onto the nearest high stool at the breakfast bar, bouncing the ball again.
Isaiah rolled his neck at the tweaked nerve the noise from the ball incited. “So why the dog’s ball? Is it like a good luck charm or something? Do you carry it everywhere?”
“Nah, but me and Nugget were playing before school and I forgot I stuck it in my pocket. I’m not hungry.”
>
“Awww, poor widdle Darrin’s too worried about his widdle fuzzy hairball to eat,” Kitty teased as she took the stool beside her brother. “Big baby.”
“Am not,” Darrin said, leaning into her with another shoulder shove. “You are.”
“Oh, boo hoo. I’m not the one crying when Nugget doesn’t come home, am I?”
“So? I’m not the one who broke the back gate, Missy Kitty!”
“Don’t call me that, Staring Darrin,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out.
Isaiah caught Darrin’s hand in midair before it made contact with the side of his sister’s face. Just as quickly, he lifted the ball from the boy’s other hand and set it high on top the refrigerator. “There. It can wait for Nugget just fine right up there. Kids, you’ve got to stop picking at each other. I know you’re worried, but—”
“I’m not worried,” Kitty informed him haughtily. “I’m immune to the emotion. I’ve never worried about a thing in my life. Ever. What’s gonna happen’s gonna happen, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it!” She’d ended on a shrill note that declared the opposite of every word she’d just spoken. The girl was a puzzle.
Isaiah held onto Darrin’s much smaller hand, surprised when the boy curled his fingers into his palm. Both kids were rattled. He got that, but something else was going on here. No twelve-year-old girl should have such a fatalistic outlook on life, and that speech? Where had she heard that line of nonsense? “Don’t worry, I’ll fix your backyard gate,” he told Darrin to calm his nerves. “And yeah. I’m a guy, but I’m still a teensy bit worried,” he told Kitty.
Her eyes widened. “You are?”
“Sure. It’s been a hard day and hard days make it difficult to relax at night. Things tend to stick in my mind, and sometimes I can’t get my brain to shut up and let me eat dinner in peace.” Extricating his fingers from Darrin’s, he gave the boy a manly shoulder bump with the flat of his fist. “I’ll bet Nugget’s the same way. He gets an idea in his head, and, bam, he takes off, and he forgets it’s time for dinner, huh?”
Darrin’s head bobbed. “He likes to chase Mrs. McCarthy’s white cat.”
“And the paperboy, the mailman, kids who ride by on bikes, and…” Kitty ticked off a list with her fingers, doing that eye roll thing again. The girl was all about drama. Was that normal for kids her age? For that matter, were twelve-year-olds teenagers? The world of kids baffled Isaiah.
“Agent Zaroyin,” Darrin asked, his lower lip quivering. “What if Nugget doesn’t come home this time? What if your police friends can’t find him or they scare him? What if—”
Kitty grabbed hold of Darrin’s neck and pulled him into her arms. “Will you stop it?” she asked, her eyes suddenly as misty as his, but her voice had gone soft and tender. “Nugget always comes back. He’s too dumb to stay away for long. He likes to eat, remember?”
“But I’m not there, and he doesn’t know any of the police guys,” Darrin whined as he buried his face in his sister’s neck. His little shoulders shook. “Kitty, he’ll be scared and ’sides, Mom gets mad and locks him outside sometimes and… and he might not want to come home this time.”
Isaiah placed his palm in the center of the boy’s back. The second he did, his mind flooded with the love this little man had for his faithful companion. And just that fast, Isaiah knew where Nugget was. “Does Nugget like hamburgers?” he asked the kids calmly.
Darrin’s tear-streaked face came up. “Nugget loves any food, why?”
Isaiah narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t there a Burger Bar two or three blocks from your house? Does a Mr. Giovanni work there, and do you know him?”
Darrin’s eyes turned into tiny saucers they got so wide. “Yessssss,” he hissed. “Mr. G’s a really good guy and he gives Nugget hamburgers that get dropped or ones he accidentally burns. How’d you know all that stuff?”
“Because I know how to think like a dog,” Isaiah said slyly, “and you can, too. Dogs have the best noses in the universe, and Mr. Giovanni makes the best burgers, sooooo…” He drew that last word out to let Darrin arrive at the same conclusion.
“Nugget’s at Mr. G’s!” he crowed.
Palming his cell phone, Isaiah dialed his new partner to tell her where to look for Darrin’s dog. “Yeah, Mr. G’s is on the east side of Kingman Park. You can’t miss it. See you soon.” Ending the call, he pocketed his phone just in time to catch an armful of boy.
“Thanks Mister,” Darrin said, his sweaty little cheek pressed against Isaiah’s and his heart pounding so hard. “I know he’s just a big dumb dog to most people, but he’s the best friend I got, and I… and I...” A hiccup lurched out of the kid’s throat. “I’m gonna pay you back for being so nice to me, I promise. Someday. Honest. I promise.”
If that didn’t melt Isaiah’s heart, nothing could. Winding one arm around Darrin’s little boy body, he returned the hug, keeping it manly. “’S okay, Darrin. Us dog lovers need to stick together, don’t we?”
“Ah-huh, we do.” Easing back, Darrin blinked up at Isaiah, his eyes filled with awe. “Wanna play ball, Agent Zaroyin? I don’t have my mitt, but I know how to catch a fly ball without it. Can we, please? I’ll let you pitch.”
This kid. Isaiah ruffled the buzz cut that bristled the top of Darrin’s head. “As soon as we get finished making dinner, you bet. Whose your team?”
“The Nats, of course,” Darrin giggled, his good nature restored. “Who’s yours?”
“Um…” Isaiah didn’t have a clue who the Nats were or what answer to give this charming boy. He’d never played baseball in his life, but if Darrin liked the Nats… “I like the Nats, too.” Least, I do now.
A big grin cracked Darrin’s face, scrunching his nose and revealing teeth that were white, but a little crooked and would need braces one day. “Then let’s get dinner fixed. I’ll help. Come on.”
And just like that, crisis averted. Isaiah pulled a fairly easy recipe for shrimp Alfredo off his cell. Kitty defrosted the bag of shrimp Isaiah found in the freezer, while he made the creamy sauce and boiled water for the pasta. Humming to himself, Darrin set the table for six, just in case, he said, that Nugget got to sit with them, which he also said would never happen.
“My mom doesn’t like dog hair in the kitchen, so he has to stay in my bedroom when we’re eating dinner, even if it’s just pizza and we’re eating on the floor in front of the TV.” Darrin chuckled to himself. “But I sneak him food, and someday, you’ll see. Mom’ll let him sit beside me. She will.”
The kid sounded so hopeful. For a moment, it seemed time stopped and hit rewind. There were no bad men like Garrett Randall afoot in the world, only hairy golden dogs and optimistic little boys. There was no mad scientist who’d gone to prison for turning honorable FBI agents into living drones. There was only a fat, lazy Siamese cat named Hoi Toi and a motherless twelve-year-old named—Isaiah.
Chapter Eight
Holy Christ! Roxy cursed under her breath as she sped Northwest to Embassy Row, pissed at the delay that could’ve ended Mrs. Bratton’s life, not to mention Humphrey’s and White’s lives. Her stalwart brothers-in-arms followed in their cruisers in case Garrett Randall was just that smart. Plus, they had Nugget with them, a bigger than a small horse, ball of excited, fluffy, gold fur that had nearly torn the house apart once he’d finally come home. He’d been crazy happy to see her, even ran circles like an out of control idiot.
Shit! Could an undercover protective detail get any more screwed up? Sure didn’t seem like it. At least Bratton’s dog was accounted for, but damn, the thing was a hairy beast. Roxy was a cat person. Hair and drool? Uh-uh. No. Thank. You.
Too late she remembered the late night Navy Concert-on the-Mall taking place tonight. No wonder there was so much foot traffic. District streets were always a bear to maneuver, but special events made them ten times the nightmare. Pedestrians, especially tourists, tended to think they owned the right-of-way, even when they skipped crosswalks and
dodged into traffic.
Then there were the delivery guys. Gunning her vehicle’s engine, she skirted yet another double-parked van in her lane. Man. Didn’t anyone in this city know it was illegal to double park—even for deliveries?—which she doubted the driver of the van was making at this late hour, but still. Traffic cops needed to write more parking tickets and people needed to pay bigger fines. This was ridiculous!
“Thanks for waiting until Nugget came home,” Bratton said quietly from the passenger seat on this desperate night. That was the ultimate irony. While Humphrey and White had scoured the neighborhood, the mammoth dog had simply strolled home like a good boy who’d been out for a walk.
Roxy mumbled a quick, “No worries.” None of this was Bratton’s fault, but Roxy couldn’t deny that the woman bugged her. It might be due to that green-eyed monster that had perched like a troll on Roxy’s shoulder since Isaiah came into the picture, though. In fact, the more she thought about it, that was precisely what was wrong. Jealousy. Yeah. That explained a lot. Too bad it didn’t explain everything.
Finally, she cranked the wheel of her unmarked sedan a hard right off Massachusetts Avenue NW, and onto Florida Ave NW. Tucked between Florida Avenue NW and New Hampshire Avenue NW stood a bungalow no one would suspect the FBI used to stash high-value targets. Most homes in this elite part of the District maintained the same high security, iron gates and bars on the windows. The safe house on Swann Street fit right in.
Roxy rolled up to the twelve-foot high, wrought iron gate at the end of an elaborately laid brick driveway. Stretching her left arm through the driver’s side window, she tapped the call button.
“You’re late,” Isaiah answered cheerfully.
“Let me in,” she replied. He knew why she was late. She’d certainly called him enough with updates on Nugget’s progress over the last couple hours.
Slowly, the gate opened inward and cleared the driveway while ten short concrete posts known as bollards lifted out of the ground behind her vehicle to prevent a second car from entry. Activating the radio at her collar, Roxy informed her traveling companions they’d have to wait their turn. The cruiser parallel parked, blocking said driveway, but damn. She could hear Nugget barking all the way up the driveway to the eight-columned portico stretched over the grand entry. Poor Officers Humphrey and White. Wasn’t that just great? Not.
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