She swallowed hard. Strained her eyes to see. Every light was out except the fluorescent lamp in the fish tank that cast eerie reflections through the marble foyer.
When she peered into the den she glimpsed a short man with long hair hanging out of a baseball cap before he scrunched behind a column. She recalled the description of Mandy’s attacker—the one who’d rammed her car off the bridge. Dana would bet her law degree this was the same guy. In a reflection from a framed painting, she could even see that his hair was light. He held a gun.
From the sound of Sam’s progress behind the intruder, he’d stopped in the kitchen and opened the fridge. Light reflected into the living room. All the trespasser had to do was turn around to see Sam in the kitchen.
Dana wished she had a clear shot from her position. If she proceeded, the shooter would see her. Should she shout now? Or wait until she was certain Sam wasn’t where he could be so easily shot?
Fear seemed to make her hearing acute. Sam twisted off a beer cap and threw it into the trash.
Shut the fridge door. The light had to be making Sam a perfect target.
Dana held her breath. Waited. The ticking seconds passed like days. Which way would the intruder go? Advance toward her? Retreat toward Sam?
If she was lucky, he’d flee out the front door. But if he chose Sam, she planned to creep up on his back. Shoot him.
But the intruder ignored Sam. Crouching, he zigzagged through the den, his steps light and quick. It was so dark, she still didn’t have a shot.
There was no time to retreat. No time to hide. And she didn’t know where he’d hidden.
She faced the den, sweat beading into her eyes, her heart pounding. There. The intruder lurked in a shadow. She aimed. Too late.
Eyes glinting, his arm was already raised. His gun trained. On her.
God.
Icy fear slashed her.
Several things happened, seemingly simultaneously. The intruder pulled the trigger. Someone slammed into Dana, knocked her into the wall, then pressed against her. She dropped her gun, and it skidded across the floor out of reach.
A bullet whizzed past Dana’s head. Molding chipped and splinters shot into her neck.
Sam flicked on the light. “What the hell?”
Dana recognized the person who’d slammed her out of harm’s way, the person covering her with her own body—was her mother.
In the same instant the lights had come on, the intruder spun, aimed, and fired at Sam. Eyes wide with surprise, Sam staggered, his gaze dropping in confusion as if to see if he’d been hit. Sagging to his knees, Sam flung the beer bottle with his good hand at the gunman. He missed, the bottle breaking as it hit marble. Glass shattered.
The shooter dodged the glass as he scrambled down the hallway toward Dana. Using all her strength, Dana shoved her mother aside, scooped a bronze statue off a table and flung it. The statue flipped backwards, the base striking the gunman in the nose. He cursed in pain, clamped a hand over his face, turned to shoot again. Catherine stuck out her foot.
The guy stumbled, slipped, and got up. Police sirens wailed.
In a running crouch, the shooter finally fled out the front door, stringy blond hair beneath his Devil Ray’s baseball cap flying behind him. Dana’s glance into the living room revealed two bodies, and she shuddered. Food churned in her stomach. From the angle of Tom’s neck and the stillness of her mother’s bodyguard, Dana didn’t need a medical degree to know they were dead.
Those poor men had died . . . to protect her. Dear God. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
“You okay?” Catherine asked Dana.
She didn’t mention the headache that had swooped back with a vengeance. Not at the sight of Sam trying and failing to stand.
While her mother went to the door to greet the police, Dana hurried toward her husband, praying he was all right. Then she saw the blood. Too much blood. All the air in her lungs whooshed out. She couldn’t breathe. Clammy and sweaty at the same time, Dana fought to stay calm. “Sam?”
Ignoring her nausea, the spilled beer and the glass shards, Dana dropped to the floor beside Sam, who lay on his back in a pool of blood. Damn it. Why did all the people she loved keep getting hurt?
“Sam. Talk to me.”
“I’m hit.”
She smoothed back his hair, and her hand came away sticky with blood. “Mom, Sam needs an ambulance.”
“I’ll tell the police,” Catherine called back from the front steps.
Sam’s eyebrows knitted in pain. His breath was ragged. But he grabbed Dana’s hand with surprising strength. She leaned over him, and he whispered, “Call Mandy and Zack. Warn them.”
“The cops will catch the guy.”
As if fate wanted to mock her, she heard the roar of a boat speeding away and out into the bay. She feared that by the time the police notified the Coast Guard or brought in search helicopters, the killer would be long gone, hidden in any of a dozen nearby parks, inlets, or mangrove swamps.
“Warn them,” he insisted, his face racked with pain.
“Okay, Sam.” Dana hadn’t thought to warn anyone and hoped the police would catch the man who’d just run out the door and escaped in the boat. She was too worried over her bleeding husband to think of much else besides getting him help. But even in serious pain, Sam was thinking about others. “We’ll warn everyone. Don’t try to talk anymore.”
Sam lifted his head, his eyes glazed with pain, his voice raw. “Tell Zack to kill the son of a bitch.”
Chapter Seventeen
SYLVIA JACOBSON washed salad greens at the sink. Between Ben inside and the bodyguard parked out front by the street, Sylvia felt safe and grateful to be home after a trying day of fielding phone calls at the office. After work, she’d stopped to nurse her grandson, who was running a fever. She’d helped her daughter rub the boy with alcohol, and he’d finally fallen asleep, his fever down. So she’d gotten home much later than usual, but she could sleep in the next morning. Catherine would close the firm during the funeral, but Sylvia suspected tomorrow afternoon would again be hectic.
Ben rolled his wheelchair up to the kitchen counter, took a knife from the drawer and started chopping carrots. Head bent, his thinning gray hair a reminder of the many years they’d been together, he appeared lost in thought. While he seemed the same since his accident, she sometimes wondered if he put on a cheerful front for her sake, although he hadn’t let the wheelchair slow him down.
Working side by side in the kitchen, without a need for words, was one of her favorite activities. However, from the ticking muscle in his tan jaw, she knew Ben had something on his mind, and it wasn’t the late hour of their supper that was bothering him.
It wasn’t like Ben to keep things from her, but he’d been up to something lately. He disappeared for hours and came home exhausted. When she asked where he’d been, he told her he’d taken up wheelchair basketball, but when she’d asked to watch a game, he’d refused, telling her the guys would feel uncomfortable.
Ben chopped and diced for a few minutes before he looked up, his deep blue eyes filled with concern. “Why don’t you take off the rest of the week? We could start your vacation early.”
She wished she could have set his mind at ease. That old saying, once a cop, always a cop, was so true. Ever since the lottery win and the trouble, Ben had stuck close to her side. She loved having him around, not just for his companionship but for his keen insight. “I can’t leave the rest of the girls in a mess. They need me.”
“I need you.” Ben placed the carrots in a bowl and began to slice celery. She handed him radishes, olives, onions, and red bell peppers to dice while she made fresh salad dressing, adding sage from the plant growing next to her sink. She’d mix in cooked chicken, and the late night supper would tide them over until morning.
“Ben, you saw what it was like today. With Lisa gone,” she choked up, “everyone has to pitch in until . . .” Sylvia wiped her eyes. “Until we find Lisa’s replacement and hire some office staff.”
“Perhaps now would be a good time for you to retire,” he suggested gently, setting down the knife.
“I can’t. The winning lottery ticket’s gone.” She sniffed, holding back tears that would upset her husband. “Dana and Mandy were lucky they survived.”
Ben chopped harder, attacking the vegetables. “We have my pension, your social security, and our savings, and soon I’ll be earning more building Web sites. It’ll be enough.”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “But if I work another two years, we’ll be able to build a cabin on that land your father left us in the mountains. You know the doctor said it’s good for you to get out of the summer heat that makes your joints swell.”
“The cabin isn’t necessary to my well-being—you are.” Ben plucked the bottle of oil from her hand, set it aside, and tugged her onto his lap. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” Sitting on his lap in the wheelchair, she snuggled into him, loving the feel of his strong arms around her. After so many years of marriage, she still enjoyed nestling against Ben’s warmth, savoring the spice of his aftershave and the comfort of being able to count on him in a crunch. “You take such good care of me.”
He smoothed her bangs from her face. “I have a bad feeling about what’s going on at the firm. Between the assaults on Dana and Mandy, and Lisa’s death, half of the lottery winners have been attacked.”
“It is scary,” she admitted.
“The evening news stations cooperated and picked up the story that none of you ladies have the ticket anymore, but we can’t let down our guard. The killer may not have heard that the ticket’s been stolen.”
“My phone hasn’t stop ringing all day. Lots of people heard on the radio, too.”
“It’s also possible that the attacks aren’t because someone’s still searching for the ticket.”
“What do you mean?” She looked into his concerned eyes and realized how lucky she was to have him. Another man would be bemoaning the loss of the money, probably focusing on trying to get it back. But Ben’s concern was for her. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him.
“It’s also possible that whoever stole the ticket doesn’t want anyone left alive who can contest ownership.”
“So they can claim all the winnings for themselves.”
“Yes.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder. “Surely the police would question anyone who shows up with our ticket?”
“Of course they would. But after past snafus with allegedly stolen tickets, the new Powerball lottery commission rules state that possession equals ownership. So anyone who has the ticket can cash in.” Ben stroked her cheek. “What do you know about Maria?”
“She’s smart and has a new boyfriend. Why?”
“Because she and her boyfriend could be prime suspects. You and Maria are the only winners who haven’t been attacked. Since I know you aren’t trying to kill the other lottery winners, maybe she’s—”
“You’ve forgotten Catherine.”
“Catherine would never hurt her own daughter. But suppose Maria—”
“No. That girl worked her way up from nothing. She’s so proud of her law degree.” Sylvia had been a cop’s wife long enough to know that most violent crimes were committed by men. “Besides, I can’t picture any woman using a knife to kill poor Lisa. Men kill with that kind of rage—not women.”
“Have you met Maria’s boyfriend? Maybe the two of them plotted together to . . .”
She sighed. “I hate thinking in this direction. But Maria has been real secretive about the guy. She’s known as the good girl, the overachiever, the one always trying to please her parents and her boss. She even graduated first in her class. Never been in a lick of trouble. She just doesn’t seem like the type to hang out with dangerous men.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Meanwhile, none of you are safe. Someone’s targeting the lottery winners or people in your firm.”
“Seems like it,” Sylvia admitted.
“I don’t want anyone coming after you, too. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
“That won’t happen. Not with you here to protect me. You’re still a good shot, and you don’t go anywhere without a gun.” She’d seen him hide a holster in his wheelchair.
“I’m not in the same shape I once was.”
That was her Ben. He never complained about his handicap. Not once. After the accident, he’d expected to die. Now he considered every day, every year, a bonus. He’d retired rather than work a desk job, but he was taking some computer courses and learning to build Web sites. Soon he’d be earning as much as he always had, maybe more. He played wheelchair basketball, tutored three of their grandchildren, and organized police fundraisers. He had more activities and friends than anyone she knew, but he always put her first.
“Honey, with you here to protect me, there’s no reason to worry.” Ben was her hero. He might be at a disadvantage due to his paralysis, but he was smart and often that counted for more than strength or mobility. “I have no doubt that if anyone attacked, you’d shoot them. I just wish the other girls were as lucky. Dana has Sam, but Catherine, Mandy, and Maria are all alone.”
“Mandy’s got Zack protecting her, and he’s nobody’s fool. I like the look of that boy.”
“Zack’s hardly a boy. When you were his age, we already had three kids.”
Ben smiled. “I was an early starter, but who could blame me when I lucked out finding a pretty wife like you?”
Back then Ben couldn’t keep his hands off her. He still couldn’t. She shoved down her grief over the recent troubles and managed a grin. After so many years, they’d both learned not to allow bad things to steal their happiness. “Did you notice at the office today that when Zack was watching Mandy he had a gleam in his eyes?”
“Don’t start with your matchmaking. I know you want the entire world to have what we do, but not everyone is so lucky.”
“Sometimes they are,” she teased. “Didn’t I do a good job finding Roxie her Dennis?” Roxie was their youngest daughter, and Sylvia had met her future son-in-law, their vet, when she’d taken their dog for a checkup. One look through his thick glasses into those warm brown eyes and she’d known he was the right man for her Roxie. The two of them were expecting their third son any day now. “I think Mandy and Zack could be good together.”
“Uh-huh.” Ben didn’t argue. He’d been married long enough to know that Sylvia had a sixth sense when it came to matters of the heart.
“Maria’s new guy is keeping her happy, too. She seems bubbly lately. Like some man is doing a good job in her bed.” Sylvia unfastened the top snap of his jeans.
“Distracting me with sex isn’t going to work this time.”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.” But her hand moved lower.
“I mean it, Sylvia. Let’s go away next week. Catherine can hire a temp to answer the phones.”
“I do more than answer the phones. I type—”
“I want you someplace safe. Someplace I can have you all to myself.”
“Why wait until next week? You can have me right now.”
Sometimes there were advantages to a wheelchair and to knowing her husband almost as well as he knew himself. Ben might have put on a few pounds. His hair might be thinning. He might not be able to walk, but some things never changed. He always wanted her, and he didn’t mind the wrinkles around her eyes, or the body that had birthed seven kids or that she wasn’t as spry as she once was.
They still knew how to please one another. They still knew how to love.
Sylvia sig
hed happily as Ben rolled them toward the bedroom. Beneath her cheek, Ben suddenly tensed. He spoke in a whisper. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” She listened to the air conditioner cycling on, Ben’s breath in her ear, and the neighbor’s dog barking.
Ben eased her from his lap and pulled his gun. “Get down. Stay away from the window. Someone’s in our backyard.”
Sylvia’s mouth went dry. Their yard was fenced, the gate locked to keep kids from their pool.
No one should be there.
“Should I call for help?” she asked. The phone was back in the kitchen, and since Ben was home, her bodyguard remained outside in his car.
“Stay where you are,” Ben ordered in a calm, but firm, voice.
He raised his gun to the windowsill, peered through the pane into the darkness. Clouds blocked the moon.
“See anyone?” she whispered.
“I’m waiting for my eyes to adjust.”
She peeked over his shoulder. “There.”
A man merged with the shadows between the Canary palm and the giant lily plants she was so proud of. Clouds parted and moonlight glinted on the intruder’s gun. He fired, and the bullet smashed into the side of the windowsill, spraying splinters.
She jerked back with a gasp.
Ben didn’t hesitate. He shot right through their bedroom window.
The trespasser howled, ducked behind a tree.
“You got him.” Sylvia placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder to steady her nerves. She had never seen a man shot before.
“I nicked him. But he just hightailed it over the fence. I can’t fire another shot and risk it going into the neighbor’s yard.”
“He’s getting away?”
Ben headed toward the kitchen and the phone. “I’ll call it in. Maybe a black-and-white will pick him up.”
Chapter Eighteen
“THE COPS ARE hot on my ass,” Nick Vizzi panted into his phone. His nose still smarted. The bitch may have broken it with her statue-throwing trick.
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