At exactly three o’clock, Court entered the history section of one of the local bookstores. There was a man already present, perusing the American history shelf behind Court. A moment later, he brushed past Court with a muttered “excuse me” and left. Court browsed, slowly making his way around until he faced the American history shelf. He picked up a couple of books on the Civil War and replaced them after a cursory glance. Then, ensuring with a casual scan that he was not being observed, he opened a book on “The Battle of Antietem”, removed the brown envelope that had been left for him, and hastily placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket.
Now, he’d go for a cup of coffee and a pastry and see what Edison had come up with.
Entering the coffee shop, he ordered and then, balancing his tray on one hand while he used the cane for support with his other, he moved to a vacant table to sit back to back with the man who’d brushed by him earlier. He prepared his coffee, took a bite of the pastry and then opened the envelope.
The DMV records for Heather Marie Buchanan were on top and he scanned them before flipping through the other sheets: a copy of a certificate proclaiming her competency as a physical therapist, a record of employment from the Northwest Hospital and a birth certificate. A typewritten report stated that she’d been living in Seattle for about 10 years, having moved from Redmond and that her brother was currently a resident of the Rosewood Rehabilitation Center. Interesting. The last thing he came to was a photograph. It showed Heather emerging from the Bayside Emporium, an import-export business known to be under Colombian control.
Damn! Just when he was starting to like her. Aloud, he murmured, “This isn’t coincidence?”
The man at his back responded from behind his raised newspaper. “There are no coincidences. Remember? We haven’t connected her to any particular person yet, but we’re viewing her appearance as suspicious. Watch her.”
Court frowned thoughtfully as he gave the appearance of continuing to peruse the papers while he sipped his coffee. Then he spoke again. “She has an old scar on her left shoulder. A bullet wound.”
Silence. Then, “That’s not good.”
“Tell me about it. Check it out, will you? There should be a hospital record somewhere.”
“Mm-hm.”
Court stuffed the papers back into the envelope, finished his pastry and coffee and then rose to leave.
Heather surveyed the myriad cars coming and going and parked along the street, but it was no use. She’d lost him. Damn! She simply was not cut out for the spy business. Now what was she supposed to do?
She pulled into a parking spot with a sigh of frustration. Well, she’d lost him, and that was that. She might as well spend her free time doing something else. Something important.
It was time she went to visit Des. She missed him desperately, but had been avoiding seeing him for a couple of reasons. The first was that she didn’t know how to tell him what she was doing. He wouldn’t want her putting herself at risk for him. And the second was that she hadn’t wanted to make anybody who didn’t already know of his existence aware of him.
But her free afternoon could best be spent with her younger brother.
Her decision made, Heather put her Volkswagen in gear and pulled away from the curb. She didn’t notice the silver sedan that pulled out a few cars behind to follow her.
A half-hour later, she pulled into the visitor parking lot at the Rosewood Rehabilitation Center that had become Des’s temporary home. It hurt to come here. Hurt to know that, in some way, she had failed her younger brother. Hurt to think of Des dependant on drugs supplied by people like DiMona, manipulated by DiMona. But if it hurt her, then how much worse must Des feel? He blamed himself.
Consumed by her thoughts, she didn’t notice the silver car that parked a couple of spaces away.
A few minutes later, she was standing in the doorway of Des’s empty room, trying to determine just how to find him, when a man wearing black jogging pants and a white T-shirt sporting a Red Dog logo emerged from the next room.
“You looking for Des?”
She nodded. “Yes. Do you know where he might be?”
“Probably the TV room. It’s ’round the corner, second door on the left. I’m goin’ there now. Want me to tell him you’re here?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. I’ll just walk with you, if you don’t mind?”
The man shrugged. “Sure.”
As they walked silently, along the corridor, Heather retreated into her thoughts once again. How was she going to explain to Des that she wasn’t living at home, without revealing to him exactly what she was doing to safeguard his life? She’d just have to bend the truth a bit, that’s all. She’d have to say that she was hired by a wealthy client to work exclusively with him. That would probably work. For the time being at least.
Upon entering the TV room, she spotted Des immediately. He looked better. Much better than he had the last time she’d seen him. And, he looked more like their father every day. Whereas Heather had inherited their mother’s auburn hair and hazel eyes, Des had inherited their father’s black hair and brilliant green eyes. Had they not shared many similar features—high cheek bones, straight nose, firm jawline—and had it not been for the few freckles that dusted Des’s nose, people might have argued that they shared the same parentage at all.
“Heather!” He smiled and rose the second he caught sight of her. Rushing toward her, he swept her into an embrace. Des had never fallen prey to the normal teenage awkwardness concerning affection toward family members. Perhaps because all they’d had for more than ten years now was each other.
Returning his enthusiastic hug, she smiled and said, “Hey, Bro. How are you?”
He smiled. “Better now.”
Dinner that evening passed at a snail’s pace—or so it seemed to Heather. Ernest, Dave and Liz Kaiser had gone out, so she and Court were alone in the house. A situation she would rather have avoided. She would have given almost anything to avoid Court entirely, and not tempt fate—because every moment she spent in his company increased her unwelcome attraction to him. But with DiMona’s di rective that she find something on Court within a week hanging over her head, she knew there would be no escape. The problem was that Court, himself, seemed a bit preoccupied this evening and thus far she’d been unable to penetrate that wall with any of her questions.
Twirling the stem of her wineglass, she sought again to open the conversation. “So, Court, where do you call home? Where were you born?”
“Pennsylvania. Lived there all my life until I went to law school.”
“And after graduating…that’s when you moved to New York?”
Having just taken another bite of his dinner, he nodded, but said nothing.
“So, what motivated you to become a lawyer?”
“It wasn’t a calling, if that’s what you mean. I wanted a job that offered me a decent living, and I didn’t have any desire to follow my parents into the medical field.” Picking up his wineglass, he allowed it to dangle from his fingers as he looked at her—seeming to truly see her for the first time that evening. “And, to be honest, I enjoy it and seem to have a knack for it.” He smiled. “But, that’s enough about me and my ordinary, oh-so-boring life. Let’s talk about you for a change.”
“Me?” Heather asked. “I’ve already told you everything there is to tell.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
Heather considered him, her throat closing as she wondered if there was a double meaning to his words. She said nothing, seeking desperately for a way to turn the conversation around.
“Who is the real Heather Buchanan?” he asked. “The woman beneath the professional exterior?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. What matters to you Heather? What do you enjoy doing? What are your hobbies? What do you dream?”
Heather swallowed, nodding as she began to understand what he was after. “All right. Well…my work matters to me, h
elping people. I enjoy cooking and hiking. I love nature, and I’d love the chance to go camping again someday. I haven’t been in years.”
“So, you’re a country girl at heart.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never thought of myself that way, but I suppose you could say that without being too far off the mark.”
“What about dreams?”
Heather studied her wineglass with singular concentration. Dreams were for dreamers. And she didn’t dream. Not anymore. Because dreams didn’t come true, and there was nothing more painful than the shard of a shattered dream. But she couldn’t say that, so she simply shook her head and said, “I don’t have any.”
“Everyone has dreams.”
Heather shook her head. “Not me. I think it’s best to accept life as it comes, to value each moment, you know? Because if you concentrate too much on achieving some nebulous dream, you miss out on life.”
Court studied her for a moment as though absorbing the nuances of her words. “That’s a pretty astute observation. Not many people are so perceptive un less they’ve received a lesson in their own mortality.” His gaze shifted to her shoulder. To the exact spot where the scar lay concealed beneath the thin fabric of her dress. “Staring death in the face can do that.”
Staring death in the face. Yes, Heather had done that. Once. In a time that only escaped the walls of her memory in nightmares. Her breath caught and she forced herself back to the present. “Really?” She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation about herself. It was dangerous, and he was damn good at getting to the core of the matter. “That’s unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“Mm,” he murmured noncommittally. “Other people say that a life without dreams is stagnant.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that a person should be completely without dreams. Just that they should not allow themselves to be so consumed by them that they miss the simple joys to be found every day.” He studied her again as though trying to read her expression. “So,” she said, before he could come up with another question, “what do you dream of?”
He leaned back in his chair. “That’s a good question. Mostly I think I dream of having the chance to escape civilization for a while. The life of a hermit looks extremely attractive at times.”
At that moment, the phone on the kitchen wall rang. Court rose to pick it up. “Gabriele residence. Marc, how are you? Tomorrow evening? Sounds fine. Tell Mr. Aponte that I’ll be there. DiMona? Yes, of course, we’ve met. All right. Thank you.”
The minute she’d heard DiMona’s name, Heather’s heart had all but stopped. Now she was hyperventilating, unable to catch her breath. A panic attack, that’s what it was. She’d never had one before, but she knew the symptoms.
“Heather, are you all right?”
Slowly, she got a grip on her emotions and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just…choked on a sip of wine.”
He resumed his seat and sat observing her with his perceptive gaze. Then he said, “Ms. Buchanan, would you do me the honor of being my date for a dinner engagement tomorrow evening?” He held up a hand as though to forestall an expected denial. “I know it’s sudden, but it would be just as a favor to me. No strings attached. It’s a black-tie affair at the home of an associate of mind, Gilbert Aponte. I don’t imagine you know him?” She shook her head, and he continued. “Anyway, I’m afraid there is no one else available to accompany me on such short notice.”
Heather wanted to scream and run. The last thing she wanted was to be in the same room with DiMona while Court was there to observe the interplay. What if she messed up? Gave herself away? She opened her mouth to say that she was sorry, that she couldn’t possibly make it. But, only two words emerged, “Of course.” She barely heard them over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Lord, help her.
Chapter 7
As Court dressed for dinner the next evening, he pondered Heather’s situation again, trying to work out in his mind what her connection to the Colombians might be. Who exactly was she working for? Aponte? Vargas? Based on her reaction to his invitation last evening, there was no longer the shadow of a doubt in his mind that she was connected to them in some way, which was precisely the reason he’d asked her to come as his date rather than the DEA agent who had been put in place for that purpose. Heather was legitimately a physical therapist, so she wasn’t working undercover with the local cops. The most likely conclusion was that she was probably, in some capacity, working for the Colombian’s counterintelligence man, Rick DiMona—on whom the DEA had virtually nothing. Yet, she really didn’t seem the type.
Okay…so did DiMona have something on her? Was he blackmailing her? How? The brother?
Court frowned. Dave had reported following her to the rehabilitation center yesterday…after she’d attempted to follow Court and lost him. He had to smile at that. There was little question in his mind that she was a rank amateur. Still, that could make her even more dangerous.
A little checking had revealed that Desmond Buchanan was still a resident of the Rosewood Rehabilitation Center. So, the kid had problems, and those problems had to do with drugs. Put the Colombians and DiMona into the pot and stir, and you got a coincidence stew that smelled like trouble. Since Court didn’t put much faith in coincidence, instinct told him that what he had was trouble.
So, perhaps the most important question to ponder at the moment was, why? Why had they—or DiMona—sent Heather into his house?
If Court’s cover had been blown, he was reasonably certain that he would have been hit. His superiors had already been scared once—when Court had had his accident. But a thorough check had revealed that the drunk who had run Court off the road was just what he seemed. A loser, to be sure, but he’d had no drug connections, and none to the Colombians. So, since accidents really do happen and it was much too late for anyone to take his place, Court had stayed in position and was working to recover as quickly as possible. Now though, he had reason to wonder again if, in some way, he had inadvertently placed the operation in jeopardy.
If indeed Heather was working for the Colombi ans—and no other scenario made sense—either they just suspected something, cop or competition, and didn’t want to mess up a good contact without proof. Or, they believed Court was who he said he was, but didn’t trust him and wanted someone in the house as a safeguard to watch him against the possibility of a double-cross.
Damn! Court needed to know which it was and soon. If the operation was in jeopardy, two years of work could be down the drain. Not something to be taken lightly.
Precisely why he wanted the opportunity to observe Heather and DiMona together in a room. He hoped to gain some insight into whether or not they did indeed share a relationship, and, if so, what kind?
Heather stared at herself in the mirror in her room. She wore a simple black sheath dress, unadorned, with black high-heeled sandals on her slender feet. She had washed her long hair, curled it slightly, but left it loose. Now, the glass reflected the image of a glamorous stranger back at her—revealing none of the terror that rippled through her system in waves. How had things gotten so out of control? If she had thought herself in the lion’s den in Gabriele’s house, where would she be when she joined him for the dinner that would include DiMona?
The sensation that the situation was spiraling out of control, unfolding beyond all hope of management, intensified. What if she failed?
No! She wouldn’t fail Des again. She could do this! After all, she’d found the courage to face Herrera and DiMona in the first place.
As though the meeting had been only yesterday, she could still feel Herrera’s dispassionate gaze on her as she’d sat before his desk at the Emporium. Still sense DiMona lounging against the wall at her back, breathing down her neck. Still hear Herrera’s callous words. “Are you nuts, lady?” Rising, he’d propped his fists on his desk and leaned toward Heather as though his proximity could somehow impress upon her the stupidity of her proposal. “Do you know who I am? What I do?”
Herrera was a drug dealer. Unfortunately, he was the drug dealer from whom her immature and unthinking younger brother had stolen ten thousand dollars.
“So what the hell gave you the idea that I might consider a repayment plan?” Herrera demanded. “Do I look like a friggin’ banker? Or, is somebody out there spreading a nasty rumor that I’m a nice guy?”
Before Heather could respond, DiMona had interrupted, his autocratic tone eradicating any illusion that Heather had had that he was simply Herrera’s body guard. “Wait a minute, Herrera.” And then DiMona had turned his sharklike gaze on her. “Didn’t I hear the kid mention once that you’re a nurse or therapist or something?”
“I’m a physical therapist.”
And suddenly, for the first time, Rick DiMona smiled. The gesture sent chills down Heather’s spine. “Now, isn’t that a coincidence? That’s just what we need.”
Was it a coincidence? Heather wondered now as she clenched her fingers into fists to still their trembling. Or had she and Des been played like a pair of fiddles? She’d probably never know. But somehow she had to get through this. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress and turned to leave the room. Court would be waiting.
“You look beautiful,” he said as she neared where he waited in the foyer.
“Thank you,” Heather managed to reply. She felt like she was going to her own funeral.
Court helped her on with her coat, freeing her hair from her collar in a way that sparked little shocks of awareness all up and down her spine as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. His touch created fissures in the icy wall of her terror, prompting her to become aware of him, of his devastating allure. He wore a black suit and snow-white shirt that complimented his dark looks perfectly.
Undercover with the Enemy Page 7
