by The Saint
"Leave Janey out of this.” Courtney immediately weighed the impact of her words against the acrid tone of voice she’d used and cringed on both counts. Ignoring her uncle’s implication and despite the risk, Courtney also knew she had to nail Dirk Templeton. Momentarily caught off balance and desperate for perspective, she countered his offense with defense.
"Look Uncle Brian, I appreciate your concern, but I have a business to run. I’ll be done in a couple of days, and I won’t jeopardize your operation, I swear.”
“Absolutely not.” O’Shea folded both beefy arms across the expanse of his broad chest. “I’ll not be helpin’ raise another child without a mother or a father.”
Touched, but determined, Courtney took another tack. “Police officers have children, too. Are they wrong to do their jobs?"
"Don’t pull that with me, Missy!" he huffed. “You are not on the Force. You are a civilian consultant who walked smack dab into the middle of an undercover operation.”
Courtney had never seen Brian this upset. The hulk of a man had always been imposing, but in a huge, teddy bear kind of way. Until this morning. When she'd been ordered into his office at the crack of dawn–literally.
“It’s bad enough you were plannin’ on workin’ for the man.” Brian paced the narrow space behind his desk, then faced her. "But what on God's green earth possessed you to go to his home last night?"
As curious as she was impressed by O’Shea’s grapevine, Courtney shrugged, crossing her jeans-clad legs to buy a little time. Brian didn’t look a bit good, and, like that day in the restaurant; she was concerned that his normally ruddy pallor had taken on the same gray cast as his pinstriped suit.
"His computer guy Leonard Wallis invited me.“ Now the question she’d been waiting to ask. “So, how did you know I was there?"
O’Shea smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. Ciora was right–she doesn't have a clue. "Don't you think we have people on the inside?"
Of course Courtney knew that, but how could she possibly confess her true motive? How about…
Well, Uncle Brian, the other day I cornered some poor rookie and found out you believe Templeton killed your ex-partner–my father– twenty years ago. Last night? I simply needed to see the bastard who stole a major part of my life.
Or, better yet…
I shoved the gun in my purse to…oh, I don’t know. Kill Templeton? To make him pay for every day Michael and I spent without a father? For the loneliness I still see in my mother's eyes? Who knows why I went? All I know is that I’ve got to do this. But I also know you’re going to try and stop me, and as much as I love you, I simply won't let that happen.
"Of course I know you have people on the inside of an undercover operation.” Courtney forced a smile, hoping like hell he would buy the version of her story she'd finally settled on. “All the more reason for you to calm down. I was safe last night.”
“Safe?” O’Shea bellowed. “Why do you think I called you in here this morning?”
“Well–”
“I’ll tell you why,” he roared, his voice reverberating off the office walls. “Because the last civilian lass that allegedly crossed Dirk Templeton ended up dead. Dead, do ya hear me? That’s why.”
“I didn’t know that,” Courtney said quietly as she swallowed hard and sat back. Now it was her turn to struggle with the meaning behind his words. Struggle, hell. How could she have done this to Janey? How could she have put her daughter in the same position her dad had put his children in? Courtney knew all-too-well the pain and agony of losing a parent to Dirk Templeton. So, the only way she could spare Janey the devastation of history repeating itself was to win. And that’s exactly what she intended to do. After all, she had the advantage and the know-how. Forewarned was forearmed, and she felt equally certain the wheels were already in motion.
“I’m truly sorry for that other woman. You know that I am. I would never intentionally put myself in harm’s way, but with my computer expertise, especially now that I’m in–”
“Oh, no.” Ciora’s words echoed in Brian’s ears. “You are not in.”
“But Uncle Brian–”
O’Shea slammed both fists down on his desk. He ignored the instant quiet in the outer office as his voice boomed through the ensuing silence. “I said no.”
Courtney flinched, but held her ground, desperate to try and refocus his attention on end rather than the means. As typewriters began clicking away again and the sound of muffled conversations resumed, she pointed out quietly, “I have a job to do.”
He shook his head. “I’ll not risk you.”
“Risk me?” This time her voice rose, as she stood. “Uncle Brian, haven’t you figured out that I can help you? Think about it. I’ll have access to all his computer records. How can you risk losing him?”
Brian ignored her question. His tone was even when he spoke. “You’ll not be working undercover and that’s final.”
“No! It’s not final,” she blurted, planting both fists on her hips. Brian O’Shea may have remained their family’s truest friend since the night Courtney’s father died, but today there was nothing left to lose. She stood nose to nose with him now. Twenty years of fury exploded as she shook her finger in his face and pulled out all the stops. “That bastard killed my father, and with or without you I am going to finish what you started.”
Brian waved off a concerned patrolman who glanced through the windowed top of his office door. He met her gaze. “And what makes ya think Templeton killed yer dad?”
Courtney watched the color drain from the big man’s cheeks, and for the first time in her life Brian O’Shea looked older than his fifty-seven years. Regaining her composure, she straightened, then shrugged. “I just heard it, that’s all.”
“Not gonna tell me, are ya?” Brian concluded, figuring she had wheedled the information out of some poor sap. Not that he hadn’t been conned by those big blue eyes countless times over the years as well. Lemonade stands. Raffle tickets. Hell, he’d helped her rescue her first puppy from the pound. And how many boxes of Girl Scout cookies had he eaten?
“Nope.” She searched O’Shea’s ruddy, familiar face. “Can you at least tell me why? After all these years, what new information surfaced that led you to believe Dirk Templeton killed my father?”
Brian blew out a tired breath and motioned for her to sit. Reluctantly, he did the same. “The day we went to lunch I got a call from Father Shaunessy.”
“Our Father Shaunessy?” Courtney asked, immediately recognizing the name.
O’Shea nodded. “The good father had heard the death bed confession of a former snitch of mine, Bobby Keegan. Seems Bobby wanted a clean slate when he went to meet his maker, so he asked Father Shaunessy to pass on a shit load of information about Templeton and beg my forgiveness.”
“And this Keegan told Father Shaunessy that Templeton murdered my father?” Courtney asked, needing–not particularly wanting–to hear the words.
O’Shea nodded. “Bobby had given us the tip that night. Still swore, after twenty years, he didn’t know it was a set up. It seems we’d been puttin’ a little too much pressure on the dope pushers. That night instead of another take down, we got Templeton behind the door with a loaded shotgun as our payback.”
“He murdered my father”–she blinked away the tears–“and nearly killed you.” She raised her chin a notch. “I may have only been eight, but I remember how long you were in the hospital.”
Brian subconsciously rubbed the spot where surgeons had skillfully pinned his shoulder together. Too bad the pain had never really gone away. Not the shoulder–that healed in time. But the guilt never did.
My snitch.
My tip.
I should have gone through the door first.
Brian had lived with that gaping, open wound every day for the past twenty years. How many more times would he relive that night? How many was enough? One? Ten thousand and one? How often would he close his eyes to go to sleep and see Ric
hard’s cocky smile? The playful quirk of his eyebrows? The sound of his voice, insisting , “My turn.”
O’Shea came around to face Courtney, this time parking one hip on the corner of his desk. Looking into her trusting face, he decided there would never be enough–anything–to ease his mind. “Lass, you’ve been like a daughter to me,” he crooned, tracing her jaw with one beefy finger. “You can’t do this.”
Courtney smiled at his touch, then took his rough hand in hers. “I have to, Uncle Brian.”
“I won’t let you.“
“You can’t stop me.” She squeezed his fingers and told him, her voice nearly a whisper, “I’ve already been hired and I’m going to do my job regardless. Besides, I can crack his files like a walnut. They have to contain something you can use to nail him.”
Brian paused, then met and held her gaze. Over the years he’d seen that look. That same tenacious determination that, along with Brian’s help, had gotten her through tadpole swimming lessons, junior high algebra and Johnny–the sophomore heartbreaker–Dwyer. The familiar expression that told him she would never quit now. No matter what.
Frustrated, he raked a hand through his thick, red hair. “In and out, Lass,” he ordered in one deep breath. “Fast as a jack rabbit.”
“Bunny rabbit, “ she corrected without thinking. A wistful smile tugged the corners of her mouth as she remembered a similar comment he had made about her fourth grade Halloween costume–Bugs Bunny, not Jack Rabbit she’d insisted quite seriously. Knowing this was his turn to insist, but not waiting for him to do so, she swore, “I will work as fast as I can.”
“Promise me–”
“Anything.” And she meant it.
“You will not socialize with these people,” he instructed. “And you will remember it can never get personal. Never!" He stepped in front of her and braced both hands on the arms of her chair. "Do your job. Only at Templeton's office. Do you understand, Lass?"
"Yes." One syllable was about all Courtney could manage, but she said it clearly and a lot firmer than she felt. The lieutenant's warning, however, had echoed through the confines of the small, room just long enough and loud enough to betray him. For the first time, Courtney realized O’Shea was scared. Neither facing Templeton, nor the thought of working undercover had terrified her as much as the reality of Brian's fear.
"Good," he huffed, stepping back behind his desk. “And from now on you’d better tell me before you as much as breathe. No goin’ off on your own like last night," he warned.
"I won’t, but it’s not like I’d get away with it anyway,” she pointed out, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ve got people everywhere. You said so yourself.” Her eyes widened as he rounded the desk a second time.
“And you think that was a bad thing?” He stopped and faced her.
Unsure where he was going with this, she shrugged. “Well, maybe not for me–” The return of a thunderous look on his face stopped her mid sentence. “What?”
“My people, Lass. Just like you said.” At her blank expression, O’Shea continued. “Think about it. You're not the only one involved, and last night you put my people”–he pounded his chest with one fist–“at risk.”
O’Shea saw Courtney pale as the meaning behind his words registered. Satisfied, he sat back down and spoke from the heart. “From now on, I want to hear every word from you, and I will. All of it. Each insignificant little detail. Before the fact,” he warned one last time. “Not after.”
"All right." She forced a smile, but he didn't. "Don't worry. I’ve already promised not to go off on my own again."
"See that you don't." Brian swallowed hard, trying hard to be stern, mourning the terrible mistake he’d made by allowing her to stay involved.
Uncertain that he was convinced, Courtney went a step further to try and regain his confidence. "There was one thing about last night I guess you should know. Not that it will affect my ability to do this job."
"What's that, Lass?" Waiting, Brian folded his hands to still them. "I know one of the men who works for Templeton." He had wondered if she would come clean about Jake, and right now her little confession proved to
be the modicum of relief O’Shea needed. "Who?" "His name is Jake." She cleared her throat. "Jake Ciora–" "You never referred to him by name to Templeton or any of his people, did you?" Brian held his
breath, praying Courtney didn't blow Jake's undercover name by using Ciora, his real one." She shook her head emphatically. "No." "Good." Brian exhaled. "You don't want anyone on the inside to find out you know him." “Right,” she agreed. O’Shea relaxed–a little. "What’s he do?" "It sounded like he was just a driver." Courtney nodded. "I overheard Templeton tell him to bring
the car around." Her stomach still clenched at the thought. For the first time since he had called her in, O’Shea relaxed. "So, how do you know this Ciora?" Courtney's mind raced for an explanation, discounting–Oh, I don't know Uncle Brian. He was the
only man I’ve ever loved. The man who got away. The man who changed my life forever. Instead she settled on explaining, "We dated some when I was in college."
"Don't worry. If anything comes out, the fact that he knows you will solidify your cover," O’Shea assured her. "You are who you say you are, and he can vouch for that. Unless you have a personal problem with him?"
"Nope," she assured him, hoping, after last night, that was still the truth. "Besides, the wheels are already in motion." She checked her watch. "In fact, I'm meeting Templeton at ten o’clock." When O’Shea's complexion flushed even more, she stood and leaned across his desk to plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'm in, so leave the rest to me. Everything will be fine. You'll see."
"At lunch–you come back here," he insisted, raising his hand to silence her. “I want a full report, or I swear I’ll pull the plug. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll be here,” Courtney agreed, certain he meant every word. Like so many times during the past twenty years, she reached out and took his large hand in hers. "Cross my heart and hope to–" The squeeze he gave her fingers stopped her short. "I promise."
**
Jake tailed Courtney as she drove from the police station. O’Shea had stalled his goddaughter long enough to call Ciora and filled him in. He thought the lieutenant was nuts and had told him so, in no uncertain terms, but the big guy said Courtney knew about Templeton’s surveillance and was determined to use her expertise to check out his computers.
Bottom line–Jake knew O’Shea’s decision was irrevocable. So after that loose cannon stunt Courtney had pulled last night, Jake had decided to follow her–twenty-four freakin’ hours a day. No way would he leave a clueless prima donna like St. Claire to her own devises. Nor would O’Shea. He was equally sure of that.
Jake’s lips curved.
No doubt, Brian had put the fear of God in Courtney this morning. Jake ought to know. He had been on the business end of O’Shea’s wrath more than once during the past six months. No, since that hardheaded Irishman hadn’t pulled the plug on the operation all together, he would bet his next paycheck O’Shea had laid down the law. Hopefully, he showed her homicide’s grisly crime scene photos of Peggy Baird, the last woman who allegedly crossed Templeton. At the very least, he would bet Brian chewed Courtney up and spit her out, then gave her a couple of days to wrap up the job.
Jake’s grin faded.
Two days could be one helluva long time.
Smelling her soft cologne last night, hearing her laugh, could Jake actually pretend he hadn’t seen her again? Pretend he didn’t remember? Pretend she didn’t matter? Unwilling to delve that deeply, Jake steered his thoughts away from his feelings. Instead, he concentrated on staying far enough behind her business-must-be-pretty-damn-good, silver Porsche to remain undetected as she drove to a nearby park. Leaving his non-descript, undercover sedan discreetly down the block from hers, Jake crossed the street. Hurrying into The Waffle Iron, he situated himself at a table by the front window. Close enough to watch her
every expression. Far enough away not to been seen–especially since she wouldn’t be looking for him.
When Courtney sat down alone on a Kelly green park bench, Jake fought the urge to forget the damned surveillance and invite her to join him instead. What the hell? Maybe just catch up over a cup of coffee. Get to know the successful woman she had become. Make peace? Why that impulse crossed his mind, he wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty alone was enough to tick him off.
Focus, he ordered silently. Six years ago, he remembered being damn sure about Courtney St. Claire. Who she was; and who she wasn’t. That day, Jake remembered, he had walked away without looking back. Left without a word.
So instead of crossing the line by crossing the street, he stayed put and washed away the sappy uncharacteristic wave of sentimentality with black coffee. Right now, what Jake needed was to keep his head in the game. Watch. Don’t play.
Concealed by the red and white, checkered curtain, he sat back and objectively studied Courtney in the light of day. Who was she now?
The beautiful, wide set eyes.
The delicate cheekbones.
The tiny dimple that winked at the corner of her mouth every time she laughed.
As the warm breeze lifted her shiny, dark hair, she brushed at something on the sleeve of her pale pink T-shirt and checked her watch for the second time in five minutes. She glanced down the street again, obviously expecting someone. But who? A friend? Boy friend? Lover?
He deliberately relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the stoneware mug. For the first time in years, six to be exact, Jake felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. No coincidence there, he realized. Difference was, this time when it came to Courtney, he was on the right side of the law.
When the Jeep Wrangler pulled up, Jake riveted his attention to the tall, muscular guy Courtney greeted with a dazzling smile. Sporting a black ball cap low over his eyes, the man, dressed in jeans and a Harley Davidson T-shirt, was obviously no stranger to her. He scooped Courtney into a bear hug and swung her around, despite her playful, unconvincing protests. With both arms still circling his neck and her dark hair swinging with the momentum, she giggled until he gently planted her feet back on the ground.
