Another gust of wind blew her hair and he peeled the stray strands back again. “Settled then? Next week, you’ll come over and meet my folks. You’ve never been to my house. That’s nuts.”
“Yes. Next week. I’d like that.”
As a tried and true Queens boy, Gabe saw his folks once a week when he took his mom grocery shopping and they all had dinner together. If they all got lucky, maybe he’d see them a second time.
But his mom had spectacular radar. When he had a woman in his apartment, she sensed it and hoofed up three flights of stairs, making up some bogus excuse to bust in. Given her heightened perception skills, he’d avoided bringing women around unless he intended them to meet his mother.
And that hadn’t happened much.
At least until now.
Jo’s phone beeped. She reached into her pocket, but stopped, glancing back at him. “Can I get this? It’s probably Hillary’s rap sheet coming through.”
“We’re good. Go for it.”
“It’ll take a second for the photo to load, but we’ll need to stop somewhere so I can print it.”
She punched the screen a few times and came back to him. “Gabe?”
“Yep?”
“I’d like a weekend away with you. Being down here makes me realize we miss out on a lot. My folks have a house in the Hamptons. We should go there. Even in the winter it’s beautiful.”
The Hamptons. Jo Pomeroy was so far above his pay grade he didn’t know what to think of it. “Is there a king-sized bed?”
“Two of them.”
“Sold. Get some dates together and I’ll work it out.”
“Good.” She squeezed his arm; let her hand stay there, skin-to-skin. Just how he liked it. “I’d like that. A lot.”
—:—
“Okay, Tim,” Gabe said after Little Timmy had requested not to be referred to as Timmy.
Jo resisted an eye roll. Whatever. All they needed was Little Timmy—Tim—to look at the picture and give them a thumbs-up or down about Hillary being the one who’d hired him to deliver that package.
She slid the mug shot she’d printed, complements of the office supply store that doubled as a pharmacy, across Tim’s kitchen table. “Do you recognize this woman?”
“That’s Thelma. She’s the one who had me deliver the package.”
Behind her, she heard the rub of fabric that was Gabe shifting around in the tiny kitchen. Heaven help them all if the man’s overactive system would let him relax for a full five seconds. There couldn’t have been ten feet of space and his presence managed to claim every inch of it. “You’re sure?” he asked.
“Positive. Her hair is darker now, but that’s her. No doubt.”
Jo nodded. “Thank you, Tim. One more question. How about this man?” She passed him the photo of Martinson. “Recognize him?”
Tim analyzed the photo, tilted his head left then right again. “I don’t think so.”
Huh. Doesn’t sound confident. Jo inched the photo closer. “You seem hesitant. Which is okay, I just want you to be sure.”
“I’ve never met him, but he kinda looks like a guy I saw coming out of Thelma’s office last night. He came out as I went in. I didn’t pay him too much mind though. That’s why I’m not sure.”
Jo didn’t bother looking back at Gabe. She didn’t need to. His hyper-awareness flooded the room and the surge must have been rising to epic heights.
Time to go.
“Thank you, Tim. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
She slid her chair back and stood. Timmy’s gaze tracked her then moved to Gabe. “So, am I in trouble?”
This poor guy. All he wanted was to raise extra money for his growing family. Jo leaned forward, patted his hand. “I don’t think so. If you are, I’ll help you. Don’t worry. Okay?”
He glanced at Gabe, who remained stoic, arms folded, face revealing nothing—zippo. The man was a New York City cop. One couldn’t expect him to have reactions to every situation. With the horrors he faced on a daily basis, continually getting emotional would get him locked in a psych ward.
She turned to Gabe. “Sergeant? Shall we go?”
“Oh, we shall,” he said.
—:—
Jo stood behind Gabe in the hallway of Thelma’s-slash-Hillary’s office building while the big man banged on her door. No answer. She checked her watch. Three-thirty. Apparently Thelma kept banker’s hours.
After trying the handle and finding it locked, Gabe backed up a step, staring at the door. “Damn.”
“Plan B. Lawyers always have a plan B.”
“Let’s hear it, Counselor.”
She swirled her index finger and held it up. “We visit Ellie. Maybe the sheriff too and show them the photo. In a town this size, someone will know where she lives.
“Yeah, and then the sheriff will be all kinds of jacked-off that we’re running rogue. If we don’t find Martinson, we’ll both get our asses handed to us for investigating on our own.”
“We’re not running rogue. We’re assisting his investigation.”
Gabe made a strangled sound. “Sure, the sheriff and my boss’ll buy that. No sweat.” He grabbed her elbow and ushered her to the front porch, where a second door led to the insurance office next door.
“Should we check in there? See if they know where she lives?”
“I thought about it. But if she has a friend in there, the second we leave the office, she makes a call and Thelma is in the wind.”
“Good point.”
He scratched the back of his head, scrunching his face. “Our best bet is to figure out where she lives and ambush her at her house.”
Working with Gabe for the past year had seasoned her for his moods, his ability to make a plan and attack a situation. Regardless of where he stood on an issue, he never—ever—appeared apprehensive. Regardless of his emotional state, what he showed the world was a warrior, unafraid and ready for battle. What she hadn’t been seasoned for was this Gabe, who, for the first time on a work-related assignment appeared…anxious.
She touched his arm. “Hey, if we have issues with the sheriff, I’ll take the bullet, so to speak. Everyone on the task force knows I’m a wild card. I also don’t work for the NYPD. They can’t fire me and I promise you, they won’t fire you. I won’t let that happen.”
“I’m not worried about getting fired.”
“What then?”
He waved his hand. “This. All of it. We’re in a strange place. I know nothing about how things are done here. In New York, if I need something I know where to go and when. Everything about this place feels…wrong.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“Hell, yeah, I’m overthinking. What else is there to do? We’re completely on our own here.”
Jo’s phone rang. Why did it ring every damn time Mr. August decided to open up to her? Ignore it.
Gabe waggled his hand. “You need to get that. It might be the Port Authority guy.”
Point taken there. Third ring. She fumbled in her pocket and managed to hit the talk button before the call dropped. “Jo Pomeroy.”
“Ms. Pomeroy, this is Chuck Davis.”
She glanced at Gabe. Nodded. “Hi, Chuck.”
“You might be the luckiest woman alive.”
Not likely. She latched onto Gabe’s wrist and squeezed. “Why is that?”
“Because Martinson’s container—at least we think it’s his—is here. Scheduled to be picked up tomorrow. It was x-rayed, then subsequently searched, and it’s loaded with counterfeit items. Shoes, purses, watches, you name it. We’ve seized it.”
Got him. The rat bastard. They got him. Jo slapped a hand on top of her head and blew out a long breath. “That’s great news.”
“What?” Gabe asked.
Jo held the phone away from her. “The container is there. Scheduled to be picked up tomorrow. They searched it and it’s stuffed with knockoffs.”
“Well, holy shee-it,” he said, doing his best imitation of Li
ttle Timmy. “Put him on speaker.”
She brought the phone back to her ear. “Chuck, Gabe is here. I’m putting you on speaker. Hang on.” She pressed the speaker button. “You there?”
“I am.”
“Chuck,” Gabe said, “we’ve got to let them pick up that shipment. If we alert them it’s been seized, our guy is in the wind. If we don’t alert them, we have time to saddle up S.W.A.T. and hit the final delivery location. That way, everyone’s surprised and Martinson doesn’t have time to run. Assuming he’s at the delivery location. Either way, we’ll get a bead on him and we’ll still have the shipment.”
As good as that argument sounded, Jo bit her lip. A whole lot of politics would have to be played to pull this one off.
“Sorry, man, that’s not my call. I had to kick it upstairs.”
Gabe glanced at her and shook his head. The fastest way to reach Chuck’s boss was through Tom or Bev.
And they needed to do it fast.
“Thank you for the update,” Jo said. “We appreciate all you’ve done. We’ll be in touch.”
Before she disconnected, Gabe was jabbing at his own phone. “I’m calling Tom. You call Bev.”
Perfection. That’s what they were together. Sharp minds, sharper instincts. No matter how much they disagreed about her risky behavior, when they worked together, they made magic.
“I got voicemail,” Gabe said.
“Me too.”
So much for magic. They both left messages then stood on the street staring at each other. Back to plan B that might actually be plan C now.
“We need to find Thelma’s house,” Gabe said.
“Start with Ellie?”
“Or the sheriff.”
Jo scrunched her nose and Gabe laughed. “We’re in it now, honey. Either way, the sheriff is going to find out. Might as well face it.”
Chapter Seven
Of course, because shit luck ran parallel with the Martinson case, the sheriff was, once again, out of the office. They stood on the steps while Jo left a voicemail for him to call her or stop by the hotel ASAP.
“Hopefully, he’ll call soon.”
Ever the optimist, this one. Her phone—the one that never stopped—rang and she checked it. “It’s my office. Hello?...Hi.” She glanced at Gabe. “It’s good. I’ll fill you in later, but we’re making fantastic progress…The Moore case?...Sure…I think I have a copy on my laptop. Now?...Uh, okay. I’ll run back to the hotel and send it to you.” She paused, gritted her teeth and looked up at the sky. “Ten minutes? I haven’t prepared.”
It sounded like this Moore thing was about to bust in on their day. Gabe stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited while Jo smacked her free hand over her head, her universal signal for great or crappy news.
“Okay,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to get to the hotel. Right.” She punched off. “Damn it!”
“What happened?”
“That was my boss. I’m helping on a case he’s handling and they want me on a video conference in ten minutes. He knows how important Martinson is and he’s pulling me into a conference? Really?”
Gabe held his hands up. “It’s okay. We’re in stand-by mode anyway until we figure out where Thelma lives. While you’re on your conference, I’ll run over to Ellie’s shop and see if she knows anything.”
Leaving Jo at the hotel alone would suck. Martinson knew they were here. He could be watching and that didn’t sit right. And Gabe couldn’t even ask the sheriff to keep an eye on the hotel because then he’d have to explain why he was trampling all over a case he was supposed to be staying out of.
Shitstorm. He had to do it though. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes, but you gotta lock yourself in that room. Martinson knows we’re here and poking around. Wait’ll he figures out his container was seized. We have to get to Tom and Bev, get them to talk to someone who can release that shipment.”
“Don’t panic. By the time you get back to the hotel, we’ll have heard from Bev or Tom. Hopefully. That’s all we can do. Just keep moving.”
He hesitated.
“Gabe, you’ll be gone fifteen minutes. I’ll be fine.” She tugged on his shirt. “I promise I won’t leave the room.”
As much as he wanted to believe she’d keep that promise, when it came to Martinson, Jo sometimes lost all track of her sanity. If catching Martinson meant breaking promises, she’d do it. He knew this about her. And maybe he hadn’t reconciled that with himself yet, but if nothing else, he understood her passion for the job. He poked his finger at her. “You stay in that room. Door locked.”
She waved him off. “I’ve got it. I said I would and I will.”
“Then let’s roll.”
Five minutes after Gabe left, Jo’s boss called back and told her the client cancelled the video conference.
Seriously? After making her drop everything, they bailed on her. Now she’d be stuck in this room until Gabe returned, because going outside for air would send Mr. August to fits.
She adored the man, but his overprotectiveness made her insane.
The scraping of a key sliding into the door lock drew her gaze. He must have forgotten something. She took two steps. No. Gabe would have called out, alerted her. The door swung open, one smooth arc that she tracked until the door bumped the wall.
In front of her stood Donald Martinson. With a shiny silver key in his hand. Gabe’s key? Something jammed in her throat. No. Couldn’t be. Gabe would pummel the much smaller Martinson. Plus, he was armed with his giant .45mm. Between Gabe and that gun, Martinson didn’t stand a chance.
She glanced at the white key ring she’d never seen before. Not Gabe’s key. Bursting air flew from Jo’s mouth, the relief so intense she missed Martinson’s approach, his coal-black eyes on her. Her prey had once again spun things around, made her the vulnerable one.
Get out now.
She dodged right, swung an elbow and connected with the meaty part of his bicep. He grabbed the back of her shirt, his fingers gouging her skin.
“You’re not going anywhere. I almost got you in the street, but Sergeant Townsend continues to get in my way. Not this time.”
The black truck. Martinson had been driving. Bastard.
“That was you in the truck?”
Martinson laughed. “Stupid woman. Your sergeant isn’t the only one with contacts in the police department.”
A leak. As careful as they’d been, someone on Tom’s staff was a traitor. She’d deal with that later. Now, she had to save herself.
“Help!” Jo screamed.
She kept her eyes on the door. Get there. Few more steps, that’s all she needed. She swung again, hauled her elbow across his cheek, and the thunk of bone against bone echoed in the quiet room.
“Goddammit,” Martinson said. A second man about Gabe’s height appeared in the doorway. In his left hand, he held a gym bag. “Don’t let her out.”
I’m trapped. The man entered the room, closed and locked the door, then gently set the gym bag down. What was in that damned bag?
Not waiting to find out, Jo backed toward the window and the roll top desk with the ladder-back chair. If she could get to the chair, she’d at least have a weapon. Something to swing. All she’d need was a whip and she could join the circus. God help her. This life.
But Martinson anticipated her move and slid into the corner behind her. Slowly, the two men advanced, sandwiching her between them. She shifted her gaze left and right, searching for any escape. Nowhere to go. Still, she wouldn’t stand there and make it easy.
No chance.
The bed was directly in front of her. It would slow her down, but if she could get there, she’d scramble across it and head to the door.
Do it. Now.
She leaped, landed in the middle of the bed and gripped the far edge, pulling herself across. A huge weight bore down on her, not Martinson, the other guy. Something pinched in her ribcage. Jo kicked backward, the heel of her loafer connecting with her attacker’s leg.
>
“Crazy bitch. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Help,” she yelled again.
Panic, deep and raw, scraped at her and she clutched the edge of the bed tighter. Where was Mrs. Jenkins? The other guests?
“Don’t bother,” Martinson said. “No one is here and the owner is cooling her jets in her office. We took care of that.”
Oh, no. All Jo could hope was that they’d confined her and swiped her master key. Anything else would be too horrible to consider.
But Gabe and that man-stopper .45mm would be back any second. Any second. Jo focused on breathing, on keeping the panic from flooding her brain. Work the problem.
“Help!” Her voice cracked with strain from the ape on top of her.
A screech came from near the window and she swung her head to find Martinson dragging the chair across the hardwood.
He set it next to the bed and smacked the top rung. “We got something special for you, Jo.”
Chapter Eight
Gabe climbed the hotel’s porch, thinking the twenty-minute visit with Ellie was a bust. She’d seen Thelma around town, knew her from their merchandise transactions, but didn’t know where she lived. The sheriff, she’d suggested, he’d know. Sure, if Gabe could find that son of a bitch. For kicks, he stopped at the sheriff’s office on his way back to the hotel. Once again, it was locked. Another voicemail. All he could do.
He supposed he could call 9-1-1, but being an officer, abusing that system wouldn’t fly. Nor did he want it to. Dispatchers and cops got seriously pissed at bogus 9-1-1 calls. Besides, he and Jo were doing just fine in the pissing people off department.
From the street came the sound of a purring engine. A familiar one. He turned back. A black pick-up, suspiciously similar to the one that almost ran Jo down, made a left at the corner. Too bad he wasn’t closer or he’d have chased that bastard.
He turned back and pushed the hotel’s front door open. The bells jangled and he glanced around the parlor. All quiet. No one behind the reception desk either. The very tips of his fingers tingled. He stood for a second, cocked his head, listening. Each time he’d entered the hotel, one of two things generally happened. Either he heard kitchen noises from the back end of the first floor or Mrs. Jenkins entered the reception area from her office.
The Evasion Page 7
