“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Ian,” Martinez was saying. “Joe passed away last night. Petra’s been charged with murder. I have to take her in, and she won’t get bail.”
Her. She. Martinez meant Petra. Arrested? It was too much to think about. Her head swam and she gripped the hallway railing to keep upright. The side of her head began to pound. Her stomach roiled and cold sweat covered her skin. The voices rang out, booming yet indistinct.
She couldn’t deal with being taken to jail and experiencing a migraine at the same time. She staggered back to the bedroom and dumped the contents of her handbag onto the bedspread. Mascara. Keys. Lipstick. Wallet. Her prescription bottle.
With trembling fingers, she pried the lid open and took out a pill. She stuck it on the back of her tongue and swallowed. The pill burned as it scraped down her dry throat. She stood, sweeping her belongings into a pile at the center of the bed.
Ian appeared at the door. He held the frame, his muscular arms stretched over his head. His bare chest was so broad, those abs above his low-hanging jeans so toned... As she studied his body and all the places she had kissed and touched, she knew that she was avoiding his face and the look of pity she’d certainly see there.
“Petra,” he said. His voice was soft and quiet, not a whisper, but holding the hint of a secret ready to be told.
“It’s Martinez,” she said. “I heard.”
“What did you hear?” he asked.
“Enough. I guess I have to go.” Her gaze lifted to his face. His eyes were moist. Her throat burned. Maybe it was the pill. She looked away.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About Joe? He was a good guy. It’s a shame that he died, especially when we thought he was improving.”
“No, I’m sorry that I haven’t haven’t found the real attacker. That I haven’t been able to clear your name.”
“Ian, I told you,” said Petra, her voice cracking. “What if it’s me?”
Ian shook his head. “No. I’m not going to lose you as soon as you came back into my life. And I’m not letting that cop take you into custody. Get dressed. I’m taking you to an RMJ safe house and then we can plan our next move.”
“Are you crazy? How will becoming a fugitive from justice solve anything?”
Ian exhaled. “Do you trust your lawyer?”
“He’s expensive. Does that count?”
“Give him a call and get him over here now. I’ll keep Martinez busy.”
“What if my lawyer tells me to surrender to the police?”
“Then I’ll knock Martinez out and lock him in a closet,” said Ian.
Petra folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not very funny.”
“Don’t make me beg,” said Ian.
“It wouldn’t do any good anyhow.”
Ian cursed. “Get dressed and call your lawyer. And don’t come down until your counsel shows up.”
For a moment, her mind was thrust back to Joe’s house, as she had stood by his pool. She felt the heat of the day warm her skin and the sun blind her. There were two drinks on the table, the glasses sweaty and ice floating on the surface.
She reached up and touched her head. The bruise at the back of her scalp was still there. She had been hit from behind, because there was one other person at Joe’s house when she arrived.
Petra dressed in a pair of jeans and a rust colored T-shirt, before sitting on the bed to slip into her shoes. The phone lay atop the pile from her purse, the screen glowing with an incoming text. It was from Rick Albright: We need to talk. New info. Super important.
Petra glanced at the door and then back at the phone. She sent a quick message.
Can’t talk now. Joe died last night and cops are here. I think my memories are coming back. Need to call my lawyer. Will text later.
Rick texted back immediately: Cops? Martinez?
Petra: Yes.
Rick: Be careful
There had been two people at Joe’s house. Martinez had been the first to arrive. Yet he had an alibi, or so he said. And wasn’t it odd that Martinez had found her here, instead of waiting at her condo?
There was obviously more to Martinez’s story.
Petra: Why?
Rick: Did he bring backup or is he alone?
Petra began to tremble again. She sent another message. Tell me what you know.
Rick: Do not go anywhere with that man. He’s the one who tried to kill Joe.
Petra: Hold on. I’m going to grab Ian.
Rick: NO!!!! You just have to leave. Martinez is a dangerous man. He’s dirty.
Petra: I’m calling the other cops. They need to take care of this.
Rick: NO!!!
Petra: Ian, then. I’ll call you in a minute.
Rick: Don’t. You’ll put everyone’s life in danger.
Petra: ???
Rick: Martinez is dangerous. He works for a Russian named Nikolai Mateev.
Nikolai Mateev. It was a name she knew, but only because of Ian. And Martinez was working with the king of Russian organized crime? Her stomach churned, boiling with acid.
Petra recalled the crime scene at Joe’s house and froze. There’d been dozens of cops and crime scene technicians. It was more than a little odd that Martinez hadn’t brought other police officers—or maybe witnesses?—with him. She’d been mistaken about Martinez. He hadn’t come to arrest her for a crime he’d committed. He intended to kill her, thus silencing her forever.
Another text came in and Petra read: You have to get out of the house without causing a scene. Just sneak away.
Petra: I can’t. My car’s in the driveway. There’s no way I can leave without Martinez knowing.
Rick: You have to get out. You aren’t safe. I’ll come and get you. Meet me in five minutes.
He texted a street address that was two blocks away. Petra’s heart raced, thumping in her chest, making her T-shirt flutter. She took in a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Exhale.
In a quiet corner of her mind, Petra knew there were two questions to be answered. First, how could she get out of the house unnoticed? And second, what should she do about Ian?
If Martinez really was working for Nikolai Mateev, then he was far more dangerous than either of them had suspected and that meant they needed backup. The police. The FBI. Or better yet, the old crew from RMJ. All it would take was a phone call once she got out of the house...
She shut and locked the door and then leaned on the wall. Now she needed a way to escape.
Her eyes were drawn to the window. She opened the shades and bright Colorado sunshine flooded the room. She pressed her face to the glass and looked down. It was two stories to the ground, maybe fifteen feet, by her estimation. Farther than she’d dropped at Nikolai Mateev’s apartment building, but not by much.
She tucked the phone into her back pocket. She opened the window and removed the four metal brackets that held the screen in place. With it set aside, Petra sat on the windowsill with her legs dangling. From here it looked a lot farther to the ground than her original guess had been.
Yet she had no choice.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Certainly, if she went downstairs, she could find a way to quietly warn Ian and then, together, they could get away from Martinez.
Backing out of the window, Petra hung by her fingers. Finally, stretched out long, she let go. The weightless feeling nauseated her and then her feet hit the grass.
Petra sprinted down the street, all the while fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. What would Martinez do if he saw her running away? She imagined a set of crosshairs tattooed onto her flesh. She pushed her legs harder.
From half a block away she saw a red sedan idling at a stop sign, and she pulled up short. Who else was watching her? Who else was waiting? Then she remembered Rick had been in an a
ccident and now drove a rental car.
Petra dashed the last hundred yards, her side cramping with the exertion. Breathing hard, she came up to the car. Rick leaned across the console to open the passenger door.
At least she was away from Martinez and with someone she could trust. Now to call in the professionals. “Thanks for coming to get me, Rick,” she said, by way of greeting. “I remember something from Joe’s. There were two glasses on his patio. They both had ice cubes in them, so they hadn’t been there long. Which means that whoever was there with him, whoever attacked him, was still at the house.”
“Get in,” Rick said. “We can talk about it further once we get you away from Martinez.”
Petra felt a flush creep up her face. She should’ve known better than to stand outside gabbing. She slipped into the car and shut the door. Using the automatic lock, Rick secured the door. He stepped on the accelerator and the sedan shot forward.
Rick slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel twice. “I can’t believe this is happening, Petra. It’s all so messed up.”
His reaction surprised her and she watched him as he drove. His complexion was dull and the bruises on his face had turned from purples and blues to yellows and greens. The cut to his lip was scabbed over, but his mouth was still swollen. Even though she’d seen him the day before, he looked worse.
But it wasn’t just his injuries.
There was something wrong. Though she could feel cold air blasting out of the vents, a sheen of sweat covered Rick’s forehead. Beyond the new-car smell and the sweat, there was something else. It was sour and dank, like vinegar or curdled milk.
Was it sickness? No, she decided, it was fear.
What was Rick afraid of?
He rounded a corner and pulled in to an undeveloped cul-de-sac, where there was nothing beyond the curb but open fields of scrub.
“I should call Ian right now,” said Petra, as she pulled up his contact information. “Just to let him know where I’ve gone.” Her finger hovered over the call icon. A thought came to her, and it was like finding a puzzle piece that she didn’t even know was missing. “How do you know about Nikolai Mateev?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that Martinez was working for Nikolai Mateev, a Russian gangster.”
“He is,” said Rick, “which is why you had to get out of there.”
The sour and spoiled scent came again, and she knew where she’d smelled it before. “It was you,” she said. “You were at Joe’s, and then at my apartment last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick said.
“You were there, Rick. Admit it.”
Rick opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. “It didn’t have to be this way, Petra.”
“You’re too good of a guy to be tangled up in whatever you’re doing...” She sprang for the door, her only means of escape. She pulled up on the handle with her free hand.
It wouldn’t budge.
Rick grabbed her other wrist, his fingers biting into her flesh. Her hand went numb and the phone fell from her grasp. It landed on her lap, before tumbling to the floorboard—taking away her link to the outside world.
She dived for Rick, remembering the wound she’d given him last night. Her fist connected with his middle. He doubled over with a curse. She reached for the lock and pulled it up. Grabbing the handle, she pushed the door open. He yanked her arm and a burning pain shot through her shoulder as he nearly tore it from the socket. She twisted and kicked as best she could, but Rick pulled her straight back.
Rick held a cloth in his hand. He pressed down, covering her nose and mouth. Fumes surrounded her, making her eyes water and her throat constrict. She pushed Rick’s hand away. The cloth came down harder on her face.
Petra’s thoughts became a jumble—nothing more than leaves in a windstorm. She pushed at the hand that held her one more time, and then Petra forgot why she had even bothered to fight in the first place.
Chapter 13
Ian lifted the cup to his lips and paused. A film floated on the top of the tepid tea and clung to the sides of the cup. He set it on the counter without taking a sip.
Martinez leaned against the wall and consulted a fitness tracker at his wrist. “Any idea when Petra will come down? I don’t want this to get ugly, but I will forcibly remove her from the house, if necessary.”
It had been nearly thirty minutes since Martinez had arrived and Ian didn’t know how much longer they’d need to wait for the attorney.
“I’ll be right back,” said Ian, as he left the kitchen.
He needed to speak to Petra. If her expensive attorney wasn’t going to do his job, then they needed another plan. He loved her too much to let her go.
His steps faltered. He loved Petra, and no matter what, she was what mattered—not Nikolai Mateev, not the Russian mob, not promises he’d made fifteen years ago, not even his career or RMJ.
Ian took the stairs two at a time. He strode up the final steps and stopped at the bedroom door. He gave a sharp knock. “Petra? It’s me. Can I come in?”
She didn’t answer. He knocked again, louder this time. “Petra?”
Still there was no reply.
He reached for the handle and jerked it up and down. It held fast. Ian slapped the flat of his hand on the door. “Petra. Open up.”
“Everything okay?” Martinez stood in the foyer, looking up.
A million different catastrophes came to Ian at once. Petra, in the midst of a migraine, incapacitated and sprawled on the floor. A fall in the bathroom and a subsequent head injury. The metallic taste of panic coated Ian’s tongue. “Petra?”
Martinez was at his side—Ian had been so focused that he hadn’t even noticed the large cop coming up the stairs. “Ms. Sloane? It’s Detective Sergeant Martinez. I need you to open the door.”
Nothing.
Leg cocked, Ian kicked the lock. There was a crack as wood splintered and metal bent and twisted. The door tilted and swung inward. Ian pushed his way into the room, Martinez right behind him. The window was open and the screen leaned against the wall. Ian’s gut dropped to his shoes. Petra was gone.
A pair of his sleep pants and a T-shirt lay in a heap on the bedroom floor. A dresser drawer hung open, the few clothes inside askew, instead of folded neatly. Petra’s handbag lay on the bed, the contents scattered about.
“She got dressed,” Ian said, aloud. “Then dumped her purse out and left through the window. But why?”
“Easy,” said Martinez. “She didn’t want to go to jail.”
Ian lifted the purse and looked at what Petra had left behind. Wallet. Sunglasses. Car keys. Lipstick. No phone. Who had she called to ask for help? Who had she trusted more than him? Ian carefully set the purse down, his hand lingering on the soft leather.
With the force of a sledgehammer, the betrayal hit him in the chest. The pain was excruciating and quick, gone as soon as it came. Yet Ian could feel it—a piece of his heart had broken off and he would never be whole again. If Martinez hadn’t been standing next to him, he would have laughed at himself for playing the fool.
How could he have cared for Petra again? Damn it, he’d fallen in love with her a second time.
For a moment, he considered simply letting Petra go and make her own way. That was obviously what she wanted, and he shouldn’t have expected any less. Wasn’t that what she did best when things became difficult—run?
Certainly, Martinez was a resourceful cop and would eventually track her down. He didn’t need Ian’s help, didn’t need to know that Petra’s phone was missing, or that Ian had the ability to track the number.
Yet maybe Ian needed to face her duplicity head-on, needed to see Petra one last time, and then properly say goodbye.
“If you know where she is,” said Martinez, “you’re bound to tell me, u
nless you want to face charges for aiding and abetting.”
Ian grunted. After all the laws he’d broken recently, a few more didn’t matter.
Martinez must’ve decided to try again, use a different tactic. “I can tell you care for Petra. And if you do, you need to help her. The longer she’s on the run the worse it will be once she’s caught. You know that.”
Ian nodded slowly. He knew what Martinez said was true, and still he felt like a heel. “I can find her,” he said. “Come with me.”
In his office, Ian used his desktop to open the Rocky Mountain Justice site. From there, he found the second number listed under his name. He highlighted it and opened the phone’s app. A list of texts recently sent and received appeared. They were all to and from Rick Albright, the team physician.
Did Ian even know Petra anymore? He glanced at the first text and his insides turned icy.
“What the hell?” Martinez muttered, while reading over Ian’s shoulder. “That’s not right. I’m not working with Nikolai Mateev.”
Where Ian’s gut had been frozen before, it now filled with molten fury. Nikolai Mateev was not a name most people—even police officers—should recognize. How was Martinez involved? Had Ian been duped? Was he now helping the enemy?
“But you do know Nikolai Mateev.”
“I wouldn’t say that I know him.”
“What would you say, then?”
“I’ve heard the name, that’s all. The FBI gave the Detectives’ Bureau a briefing about him and the possibility that he’s in the state. Something went down in Boulder, but the details were sketchy. We were ordered to turn all our information over to the Feds.”
“Who briefed you?”
“I don’t know,” said Martinez. He held his hands up in surrender. “It was months ago.”
“Try to remember,” Ian urged. He wasn’t entirely sure if Martinez was to be trusted.
“Well...” The detective paused and scratched the back of his head. “He was a bigwig out of the Denver field office. A bald guy. Jones, or maybe Johnson.”
The answer made sense, as did Martinez’s reaction of disbelief and nervousness. “Jones,” said Ian. “Special Agent Marcus Jones. He hired my firm, Rocky Mountain Justice, to find Mateev.”
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 15
