by Pamela Clare
Oh, she knew, all right. He referred to the practice of an accused providing evidence—real or fabricated—against someone else in exchange for a lighter sentence. Or for a reduced term if the individual already stood convicted. It was a risk you took to practice criminal law.
“I think you can relax on that score, Vince. They’d never offer him a ticket, not for you.” And not John, please God. Surely he wouldn’t see Vince hurt. Surely he wouldn’t do that to anybody. “You’re not a big enough fish, Vince.”
“Gee, I’m flattered. I think.”
“Number one, you’re not dirty. You’ve got an impeccable reputation, a respectable practice–”
“Present client excepted.”
“Agreed. And you’ve never made yourself a thorn in anyone’s side. Nobody’s got even the smallest incentive to want to hurt you, with the possible exception of DeBoeuf, if he really does think you sold him out, and anything he’s got to say will be taken with a bushel of salt.”
Vince swore again, muttered something. She pressed the cell phone closer to her ear. “What’s that?”
“I said, maybe you are. A big enough thorn in the side, that is. A big enough fish.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no. This isn’t happening.
“Suzannah? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I want you to go home right now, gather up all the DeBoeuf files and take them to the office. Put them on my desk. They never left my office, you understand? They never left my care, custody or control.”
“It’s too late.”
A pause. “What do you mean, too late?”
“John Quigley. He’s the arresting officer. I’m pretty sure he saw them. He’s practically been living with me these last weeks, until the last day or so.”
Another curse from Vince.
“I think he read the files, Vince. I think that’s where he got all that detail.”
“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” Vince said. “Go home. Don’t talk to anyone. Let me look into it. Presuming DeBoeuf retains me, I’ll talk to the Crown Prosecutor as soon as I can manage it. We’ll know what we’re looking at then.”
“Vince, this is all my fault. I’ve been so blind. I left those files laying around.”
“Hey, sweetie, don’t beat up on yourself. They were just corporate files. You didn’t know—we didn’t know—they could be of interest to the police.”
“If anything happens to you –”
“Nothing’s going to happen to either of us. No way can they use anything Detective Quigley might have gleaned directly from those files.”
She made a strangled sound. “But he doesn’t have to have the files. Now that he knows all the answers, he can go down to Corporate Affairs or Revenue Canada or the freaking Registry Office or wherever the hell he needs to go and ask precisely the right questions. It would be child’s play to gather the information now.”
“Exactly. So you have nothing to worry about. The clever detective put it together all by himself. You think he’s going to dispute that?”
“Vince, I feel so awful.”
“Of course you do, baby. That’s love.”
“No, that’s naiveté.” She wiped moisture from her cheek, amazed to find she was crying. “Look, Vince, I have to go.”
“All right, but don’t do anything rash. Let me look into this, okay?”
“Okay.”
She pressed the button to disconnect, shut the phone off and tossed it on the passenger seat.
“Goddamn you, John Quigley.”
She angled the mirror so she could examine her face. Ugh! She looked like a train wreck. Taking a tissue from her purse, she blotted her face, swearing they were the last tears she’d shed for that man.
Any man.
Slowly, deliberately, she took a compact from her bag and repaired the damage. Then she started the rental, backed out of her spot with exaggerated care and drove home.
*
Quigg opened the car door and let Bandy out. The squat little dog hit the pavement with a grunting exhalation, then trotted toward Suzannah’s door, his tail windmilling furiously.
“I know how you feel, buddy.”
Quigg stuck his key in the lock, let himself in and turned automatically to the alarm panel, ready to plug in the code to keep it from bleating. Dammit. It wasn’t set.
“Suzannah?”
“Right here.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to shout. I didn’t see you there.” He gestured to the alarm panel. “Honey, don’t you think you should use this thing?”
“Not especially.”
He frowned. The dog rushed her and she bent to pet it. Or maybe just to prevent it from gouging her legs.
“Ray says all Mann’s receipts square with your deliveries.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“And it’s been confirmed Mann was at the Record Office the day you were attacked.”
“So Ray said.”
“Did you hear he got remanded for psychiatric evaluation?”
“Yes.”
Something about her tone made him look at her, really look at her. Her face wasn’t quite right. Fear, sharp and illogical, stabbed at his gut.
“Are you all right, Suzannah?”
She smiled serenely. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? My stalker is behind bars. I can come and go again like a free woman.”
“Amen to that.”
“In fact, it’s already feeling like it never happened. Like it was all a bad dream.”
He frowned. “Yeah, a freaking nightmare.”
“But the nightmare’s over. I have my life back, now.”
Fear again, tightening his midsection. “Suzannah, are you trying to tell me something, here? Because I feel like I’m missing something.”
She twisted her hands together, the first sign that her cool composure wasn’t perfect. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“Then you’d better spell it out, sweetheart, ’cuz you know I’m not too good with this between-the-lines stuff.”
He saw her draw a deep breath. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“What?”
“You know it’s fraught with problems. For you, for me. Lord knows our jobs are hard enough as it is. Why make it any harder than it has to be?”
He eyed her sharply. “Have you been drinking?”
She laughed, a short, hard sound. “No, I’m dead sober, John. Maybe for the first time in weeks.”
Jesus, God, no. “What’s that mean?”
“Remember that little scene we choreographed for the staged arrest?”
He nodded curtly, and she continued.
“The reason the script came so easily is because it anticipated the truth. Mann is in custody and not likely to see freedom for a long time. Which means I don’t need a live-in bodyguard anymore. And you—well, you must have enough fodder for a lifetime of locker room She-Rex tales by now.”
He felt like every drop of his blood had drained away. “That’s all it meant to you? You expect me to believe that? That you were paying for my protection with your … with your … Jesus!”
She had the grace to flush. “You’re right. It was more than that. I had a little sexual dysfunction going on there, and you helped me with it. For which I will be eternally grateful.”
The way she said it suggested she would be grateful, all right. Grateful to try out her newfound sexual ease with the next guy. A more suitable guy. A guy like the Armani-suited, Italian-shod, Rolex-wearing sonofabitch he’d collared today.
All the blood that had drained away seemed to rush back at once, straight to his head, a blinding red rush of fury. He wanted to shove her. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to push her down and kiss her until she accepted him.
Oh, God, he had to get out of here, before he became what he despised. He cleared his throat, which felt like swallowing razor blades. “I guess we’re square then, eh?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“I’d better pack my things.”
“I’ve already done it.” She produced his overnight bag seemingly from nowhere.
“Wow, how efficient of you.”
She made no reply.
“Come on, then, Bandy. Let’s go.”
The dog hunkered down.
“Bandy, I’m not fooling. Come on.” The mutt ignored his command. Quigg strode over, grabbed the mongrel by the collar and pulled. The dog refused to come to his feet, sticking to the Persian carpet like he’d been Velcroed there. “Bandy! Come on. Dammit, she wants us out of here.”
“Don’t drag him!”
“What do you suggest I do? Hire a crane? He won’t get up and if I try to lift him, he’ll freak.”
“I’ll drop him off. I still have a key. I’ll leave it.”
“Fine.”
He wheeled and walked out, closing the door behind him quietly, though he would have loved to slam it hard enough to make the rafters tremble.
He didn’t exercise quite so much control in reversing out her drive and shooting away in a squeal of protesting tires.
Damned traitor of a dog. He shoulda told her to keep the rotten mongrel.
Locker room fodder? That’s what she thought he’d gotten out of this? He laughed bitterly. Yeah, that’s exactly what he’d get. But not the kind she thought. He was screwed now, just as Ray warned. Just as his own instincts had warned. He’d stuck his neck out for this woman, ruffled feathers, antagonized Bruce Newman and anyone Newman might have spouted off to.
And forget about promotion. Even if he could earn it, how could he effectively supervise men who looked at him and saw a man who’d been ruled by his dick? Worse, a man who’d broken ranks with his colleagues.
Half way home, he pulled into a convenience store parking lot and killed the engine. He walked into the store, bought a pack of cigarettes, tore them open and lit up. Dragging the smoke deep into his lungs for the first time in eight years, he leaned back on the fender of the Taurus. He smoked the one cigarette, ground the butt out under his foot and tossed the rest in the garbage.
Then he got back in his car and drove home.
He let himself into the big, empty house he’d inherited from his aunt, hung the keys on a peg, grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the top off the bottle and flopped in his leather chair.
Yeah, he was royally screwed. He tipped the beer and drained half of it. The problem was, he’d do it all over again. Which made him a fool.
At least Suzannah was safe. He smiled grimly and took another swig of beer. After the way she’d slam-dunked him, he shouldn’t give a rat’s ass. Guess that made him worse than a fool. It made him pathetic. Well, so be it.
If he hadn’t tailed her all those weeks ago, if he hadn’t insisted she needed his help, Mann might have gotten to her. The thought had the power to twist his stomach into a painful knot. Even now, he couldn’t believe their plan to lure Mann out had worked so well. Pity he hadn’t confessed, though. Now they’d have to wait for the DNA comparison. He drained his beer and put the empty on the floor beside his chair.
No doubt about it, the DNA would be the clincher. If Suzannah hadn’t jabbed the guy, the case’d be a lot harder to make. Amazing to think a few drops of blood…
Quigg leapt up, overbalancing the chair, which crashed to the floor. Mann should have had a pretty good puncture wound on the back of his right hand. Quigg couldn’t remember seeing one, or even a dressing on his hand, for that matter.
He grabbed his cell phone and his keys. Seconds later, he was on his way back to Suzannah’s. Fumbling with the cell phone, he finally managed to dial Ray’s home number.
“Did Mann have any wounds on his hands?”
“Quigg? That you?”
“Quick, Ray. Did he have a puncture wound on his right hand? Or a bandage of any kind?”
Ray swore.
“Here’s the thing,” Quigg said. “I think there are two of them.”
“Two stalkers?”
“One secret admirer—that’s our mild-mannered, shy boy who liked to leave her pretty roses. And one stalker, who sent her those dead bouquets and did all that other stuff.”
“Yes, dammit,” said Ray. “He probably followed her, saw her dump the flowers, then retrieved them, delivering them right back to her once they were good and dead. We’d never find him through the florists because he never visited one.”
“We got the wrong guy, Ray.”
“Okay, stay there with Suzannah. I’m gonna call –”
“I’m not with Suzannah, but I’m on my way.” Plenty of time to tell Ray later. “This guy won’t wait long to go after her. He knows we’ll tumble to the fact we got the wrong guy.”
“I’ll call for backup.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Quigg stabbed the off button and tossed the cell phone. He took the corner with tires squealing and nailed the accelerator. “I’m coming, Suzannah.”
*
Suzannah reclined on the couch with a cold compress across her eyes and Bandy by her side.
She’d sworn she wouldn’t shed another tear over him, but there’d been no stemming the tide after he’d closed the door so quietly. Now she felt hollow, cried out, brittle.
And every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, saw the way each cruel word she’d spoken sliced into him like hot lead into unprotected flesh. Which, dammit, wasn’t fair! The point of the exercise was to hurt him like he’d hurt her. She should be taking a grim satisfaction from her success. She should be grateful that she never confessed her love to him. Glad that he’d never know how much his betrayal hurt her.
But all she felt was miserable.
Beside her, Bandy growled. She lifted the compress off her face and listened. Over the dog’s low throated, sustained growl, she heard a light tapping on her front door.
“Hush, Bandy. It’s probably Vince.” The dog stayed there on the couch as she got up to answer the door. A quick look through the security viewer told her it wasn’t her partner. It was Renee LeRoy! Suzannah pulled back, then pressed her eye to the viewer again. Definitely her most un-favorite reporter, and she was looking distressed.
Another rapping on the door.
Sighing, Suzannah turned the knob and opened the door as far as the security chain allowed. “Renee? What are you doing here?”
Self-consciously hunched in the way of a woman who wanted to disappear, Renee cast anxious glances around. “I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t give interviews at home. No exceptions.”
“It’s not about an interview.”
Of course. The hunched, anxious posture said it all. A domestic case.
“I don’t see clients at home, either,” she said. Which was perfectly true, and she wasn’t about to make an exception now, when she looked and felt such a wreck. Especially not for a woman who’d made no secret of her disdain for Suzannah and her ilk. “Tell you what—if you’ll call me tomorrow at my office, I promise I’ll make time –”
“No! It has to be now. Please. It’s important.”
More anxious glances around the street, which as far as Suzannah could tell was deserted. Did this Amazon fear some man? Someone who dogged her footsteps as Mann had dogged Suzannah’s?
Suzannah weakened. “Okay.”
She removed the chain and opened the door again, allowing Renee to step inside. By the time she closed the door and turned back to her visitor, Suzannah found herself looking into the muzzle of a small handgun. Her heart leapt into overdrive. Great. A crazy woman. What else could possibly happen today?
“Take it easy, Renee.” She held out a conciliatory hand. “Whatever your trouble is, I’m sure we can work it out.”
“Lock the door.”
Renee’s voice sounded a few octaves deeper as she issued the command. Suzannah’s face must have betrayed her shock, because Renee pulled off her wig of curly auburn hair to reveal short dark hair. “That’s right, honey. Not a woman after all.”<
br />
Not a crazy woman. A crazy man. Her pulse rate kicked higher. This was much worse. Then she noticed the bandage on the right hand. Flesh-toned and subtle, but unmistakable.
Not a crazy man. The crazy man. Her stalker.
“You’re making a big mistake,” she said. “My boyfriend will be right back.”
“Oh, please, darling. I saw him leave here, this time for real. Although you did a pretty credible job last time. I actually bought it. You might have netted me if that imbecile hadn’t blundered into your trap first.”
“No, you’re wrong. He’s coming back!”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, lock the door.”
What were her chances of actually opening the door and getting away? Nil, probably. On the other hand, they weren’t very rosy if she didn’t make a break for it. A bullet in the back would no doubt be preferable to what she—no, not she—he had planned for her.
She’d do it, she decided. At least she could scream. Maybe that would alert the neighbors.
“Okay.” She held up both hands. “I’ll lock it.” Fingers trembling, she turned to the door, pretending to deal with the lock. Now or never. She wrenched the door open and screamed, only to have her captor yank her back and slam the door.
Triggered by Suzannah’s choked off scream, Bandy launched himself at her attacker. All jagged teeth, bristling hair and slitted eyes, he looked like the fury of hell. Then the report of a gun shocked her eardrums, dropping the dog mid-leap. His growl turned to a yelp, and he hit the floor heavily. Horrified, Suzannah watched blood pool on the tiles from beneath Bandy’s motionless body.
“You shot him.” Her voice rang with disbelief. So much blood. She tried to rush to Bandy’s aid, only to have her intruder restrain her.
“Forget him.”
Susannah tried to pull her arm from his grip, but he neatly twisted her arm behind her back and marched her to the door.
“And don’t imagine anyone heard that shot and is racing to the rescue. In case it escaped your notice, your neighbors haven’t returned from their state-sponsored vacations.” He twisted her arm a little higher. “Now, the lock, Ms. Phelps.”
With her hand somewhere between her shoulder blades, she obliged.
