Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Where would that leave him? Dead in the water.

  “She never answered my phone messages,” Mara said. “I ought to try her now to see if she’s home. She might be at work. I couldn’t get her schedule.”

  “You’re worried about her.” He placed a hand over hers, felt a slight tremble. Wished again he hadn’t involved her in this mess. But only for a second. Caved because weak bastard that he was, it’d mean he wouldn’t have her soft hand to hold. And her soft body beside him at night.

  “Why wouldn’t I be after what happened to Falco?” On a sigh, she added, “No answer.”

  They’d find out soon enough, but he didn’t like the odds.

  Mara’s GPS unit guided him through an Oakland middle-class residential neighborhood of colorful stucco homes with well-tended yards. They turned from a wide boulevard into a neat development of garden-style apartment buildings. He pulled into a guest parking space near the entrance to Inglish’s building. Another car drove into the complex behind them but veered off toward distant buildings. Nobody else around.

  He exited and walked around to Mara’s side of the rented Altima. “Chevy Cobalt in the 213 slot says Inglish is home. Either she slams the door in our faces, or we grill her about the ring.”

  “Grill?” Mara said, grinning.

  “Nicely.”

  They took the elevator to the second floor. Their strategy was the same as when they’d approached Hauptman’s widow—Mara would lead and Cort would try to look nonthreatening. A tough order, with his nerves ready to burst like nuked popcorn kernels. Everything had gone against them. He had no reason to hope this would be any different.

  When the elevator door swished open, they stepped into the opening.

  A large, dark blur surged toward them from the left. He threw up his elbow, blocked the fist aimed at his temple.

  He countered with a right cross to the attacker’s jaw. Big brute recoiled at the blow but swung again. Cort ducked the massive fist. He swung up one knee to smash the guy’s nuts. The bastard sidestepped and heaved a mighty shove that knocked him against Mara. She cried out and fell to the floor. He recovered his balance, fists ready, but found only air to punch.

  A door slammed and footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Two pairs of feet, not one.

  Mara rose to her feet, her face a mask of shock but not pain. He hadn’t hurt her, thank God.

  Grabbing her hand, he scrambled to the window overlooking the entry. “Got to get a look at them.”

  Through the dusty pane, he saw the two men run from the building. Big bastard who’d nearly cold-cocked him, six-five or more, in dark pants and windbreaker. The other, dark hair, average height, business suit. Their black Durango peeled out with a screech of tires.

  He slammed a palm on the window frame. Another fucking ambush. “Shit! I saw only their backs. Didn’t get the license number either.”

  “I never saw the smaller man,” Mara said. “The guy who attacked you was huge. But I guess he could be the man who mugged me.”

  “You see his face? This guy, I mean.”

  She shook her head. “But I got the beginning of the license plate. 3AAL.”

  “Better eyes than I have. Way to go.”

  “Should I call the police?” She took out her cell.

  “No. I’ll get the FBI on it later.” His gaze caught on the long hallway ahead of them. The attackers had come from the direction of apartment 213. He pushed away from the wall. “But damn, they got here ahead of us.”

  “Danita,” she whispered, dread hanging on every syllable.

  He prayed with every step down the hall the creeps hadn’t gotten in, that the door was still locked, that they didn’t have time to break in or trick Inglish into letting them in. His adrenaline spiked, and he fisted his hands. The throb in the knuckles of his right was a souvenir he could ignore for now.

  No answer to the doorbell.

  “Try the door,” she said. “Her car’s there but maybe she went out with someone.”

  The handle turned easily. Shit. He pushed the door inward. “Ms. Inglish? You home?”

  When no response came, he stepped inside, trying to keep Mara behind him. She ducked under his arm and around him.

  A rusty, coppery smell greeted them. Blood. But where?

  Living room directly ahead. Pictures smashed, drawers emptied, cushions slashed. He muttered a curse. A door leading from the room might be a bedroom. “Ms. Inglish?”

  “No, no.” Horror etched on her features, Mara clutched at his arm. She stared to her left, into a galley kitchen.

  Danita Inglish sprawled supine on the tile floor. Blood soaked her clothing and fanned a crimson puddle on the floor. Beside her lay the remains of a chocolate cake and a blood-stained carving knife.

  The dread knotting his gut was confirmed by the bloody scene, he blew out a breath and his shoulders slumped. They were too late. Again.

  Mara started toward the woman but he held her hand. “We shouldn’t touch anything.”

  “But she might still be alive,” she protested.

  “Be careful then.” No choice now but to call the local cops. He pulled out his cell and punched 911.

  She hurried to kneel beside the woman and felt her neck. “There’s a pulse. Faint but she’s alive. There’s so much blood!” She grabbed a dish towel and pressed it against the wound.

  ***

  Rousso observed through binoculars the police and ambulance frenzy outside Inglish’s building. He and his local hire sat in a Ford sedan parked across the street from the apartment complex. In case Jones saw the Durango, they’d obtained new transportation outside a supermarket. Willy wrapped his wounded arm with bandages purchased in the market.

  He spewed curses and pounded the dashboard with the fist of his uninjured arm. He should have ensured Inglish’s demise before they left. If he had not sent Willy to watch from the hall window, they might have missed Jones and the woman arriving until too late to avoid damage control. As it was they didn’t reach the stairs before the elevator door opened.

  “She has to be dead. Why would she not be dead?” he asked the abused upholstery.

  Willy wisely said nothing, only gripped the steering wheel, ready to flee if necessary.

  Rousso closed his eyes, searching for composure and resolve against the stinging pain in his arm. He should not have lost his temper and slapped her. He should have had Willy tie her up. She could not have attacked him. Then he lost it, as the Americans say, when she sliced him.

  She would hand over nothing to him now. His search had yielded nothing. He was certain Inglish had a ring piece. Obtaining it himself was a lost cause now, with blue uniforms swarming everywhere. He would have to depend on Jones.

  No matter, Rousso would possess that ring piece soon enough.

  He would possess all the ring pieces.

  Alive, Inglish could identify him and Willy. Jones had seen him before, so simply passing in the hallway was not an option. Willy’s ambush made certain they did not see either of their faces. “You know this city. Where they will take her?”

  Willy worked his jaw and rubbed at the blooming bruise from Jones’s fist. Thought rumpled his broad face like a Shar-Pei’s. “County morgue. Dunno where that is.”

  “And if by some quirk of fate she lives still, what hospital?”

  “Probably Highland General. Big trauma center. North of here. Not far.”

  Rousso thought about it. If the morgue, he was all right. The hospital, no. Obtaining access to a critical care unit was impossible without adequate time to plot a course of action. Staying in the San Francisco area for long could endanger everything.

  “There they go,” Willy said. He started the engine.

  Lights twirling, the ambulance pulled slowly out of the apartment complex and onto the boulevard. No sirens.

  “Do not lose them.” Rousso concentrated on planning an attack if necessary.

  The ambulance weaved in and out of neighborhood streets toward the highway.
When it entered I-580 headed north, the vehicle sped up. The siren screamed.

  The bitch is alive.

  He checked his pistol, the silenced H&K Willy used to take care of Inglish. Clicked off the safety. “They must not reach the hospital.”

  Willy gaped at him in astonishment. “You gonna shoot at an ambulance? In traffic?”

  “Theatrical, yes, but I—we—have no choice. I am a good shot. At the hospital, guards and many people could identify us. In traffic, I have the element of surprise. I assume your handsome face appears in local police records?”

  Reality slapped the thug’s mouth shut. He accelerated, staying one car behind as the siren cleared the left lanes for the ambulance’s passage. After a few exits, the ambulance moved toward the right lane and signaled to exit. The sign read Beaumont Avenue.

  “That’s the exit for Highland General,” Willy said.

  Rousso lowered the passenger window. “Go! You must be closer. Be ready to brake.”

  The highway angled higher, above the wide avenue below. Perfect.

  The ambulance zipped down the curving exit ramp, the stolen Ford on its rear bumper. Rousso released his safety belt and leaned out the window. He fired three shots in succession at the ambulance’s rear right tire.

  The third shot connected but the ambulance kept going.

  He cursed and fired more shots. He would shred the damned tire if required. He did not care who witnessed this. He would be gone in moments.

  The tire went flat. Black strips flew away as the rim chewed through rubber. Sparks fired like shooting stars as metal hit pavement.

  Rousso ducked inside the car. “Brake, Willy. Now!”

  Willy stomped on the brakes. Gripped the wheel against the fishtailing sway.

  Rousso jerked against his shoulder harness. The force exploded agony in his arm.

  Brakes screeched. Behind them a box truck jerked to a halt. Horns blared.

  Ahead, the ambulance snaked along as the driver tried to gain control. It careened sideways and toppled over the ramp’s edge onto the surface below. The top-heavy ambulance rolled over. Once. Twice.

  With the crunching of metal and plastic came screams of terror and pain. Finally the vehicle settled on its side, crumpled and silent between the off ramp and the traffic-filled street.

  Willy swallowed hard and looked to Rousso for orders.

  “Drive closer. Keep down. I must make certain my work is finished.”

  ***

  Mara sat on Danita Inglish’s pretty blue-flowered sofa with her handbag clutched in her lap. She tried not to look toward the kitchen where the crime-scene techs were still working. A gunshot, not a knife wound, she’d heard a policeman say. Maybe Danita used the knife to defend herself.

  EMTs had long since taken the poor woman to the hospital but the cloying smell of her wound hung in the air. Mara needed no reminder. Blood smeared her pants legs. She’d tossed her orange jacket, stained with rusty crimson, into the crime scene techs’ evidence bag. She couldn’t bear to wear it again anyway.

  While the detective questioned Cort in Danita’s bedroom, she might have time to get answers from DSF. She had to do more than just sit and wait. She and Cort would have to talk to the woman’s daughter sometime, to find out if she knew of a ring piece. Mara ached at the image of them accusing the injured—if she made it—mother of being involved in the crime. The daughter would probably throw them out with nothing. But they had to try.

  Fingers trembling, she keyed Sandi a message asking for the daughter’s address and the Durango’s owner. DI shot. Nd dtr Ellen Plante addy. Nd owner dk gn Durango lic nmbr bgng 3AAL. ASAP.

  Finished, she looked up, expecting to see Cort leave the bedroom. Hoping to see him was more like it. He was her rock in the middle of all the chaos Leon Jones’s demise had unleashed. He was becoming more important to her than she wanted to admit. A hard man, he was gentle with her, treating her more like a partner than she’d expected.

  She wanted true love with the right man, not just passion. Passion fooled a woman into thinking she’d found true love only to discover he was the wrong man. And yet she couldn’t deny her passion for him. Or his for her, yet when this was over, he would return to the wilds of Maine and solve her problem.

  Sandi’s reply jarred her from her thoughts. OMG. UOK?

  OK, Mara typed. TY. Thank you. She slipped the phone into her bag. Okay? Sort of. Every nerve in her body vibrated but she was holding it together. Tears, but no nausea. No panic attack.

  She and Cort had taken turns trying to staunch the blood until the EMTs arrived. She couldn’t do CPR because of the wound’s placement. Before anyone arrived, she and Cort agreed to reveal only why they were there—to investigate whether her father was involved with the Jeweler after the robbery—but nothing about the puzzle ring.

  First uniforms, then a detective questioned them. The detective, with his shaved head and laconic manner, reminded her of the Asian detective in The Closer. Deadpan, he scribbled in a small notebook as she related what had happened.

  She tried to describe the man who assaulted Cort but all she could really be sure of was his mammoth size. It all happened so fast, she told him. The detective showed more animation, a lift of his sparse eyebrows, when she recited the beginning sequence of the SUV’s license plate.

  That had been more than half an hour ago. He sent the vehicle information somewhere to be checked and told her to wait here while he questioned Cort.

  The bedroom door opened. The detective emerged talking on his cell phone.

  Cort walked out behind him. His gaze searched for her, the set of his shoulders and his mouth easing when he found her. The softening of his gray eyes wound heat through her in spite of her resolve and the circumstances. He joined her on the sofa.

  “You look like you’re making it,” he said, perusing her face.

  She nodded. “Guess I’m toughening up.”

  “That, and the attack wasn’t personal this time. You jumped into action to help that woman. Impressive as hell.” His eyes flickered over her, the admiration in their depths a virtual caress that tickled awareness across the surface of her skin.

  A flush heated her cheeks. “Mr. Devlin makes sure all his employees can perform basic emergency techniques. This is the first time I’ve ever had to use the training for anything but a drill. Do you think she’ll live?”

  As reply, he curved an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead. She wanted his warmth, needed it. And the strength of his arm around her. His familiar scent comforted her, but the tension in his body said he was seething with frustration and fury. He might need her support just as much.

  “Maybe we can talk to her in the hospital,” she said.

  The detective strode into the room, a grim look on his face.

  “Any luck finding the Durango?” Cort let his arm drop away from her as he stood. But he reached for her hand, and she grasped the lifeline as she rose to her feet.

  “That’s the least of my worries at the moment.” The detective rubbed his nape. “Might as well tell you. All the local news channels will broadcast it soon. The ambulance crashed at the interstate exit to the hospital.”

  She shot to her feet. “Danita! Is she—”

  His head shake cut off her question. “Looks like they were forced off the road. Inglish, the driver, and the two EMTs, all dead. Bullet to the head.”

  No. She slumped against Cort’s side. That poor woman had fought for her life against those monsters. She took a shuddering breath, dug for control.

  “Was it the Durango? Any witnesses?” Barely seeming to breathe, Cort waited, rigid.

  “There were pile-ups. The crash happened too fast.” The detective’s jaw was tight. “The killer fled the scene in a light-colored Ford sedan, only thing we know for sure. No descriptions of the shooter yet. He must’ve figured Inglish could ID them.”

  “They switched cars. They must have,” Mara said. “Stolen?”

  “Good guess. Offi
cer answered a car-jacking call at a Safeway not far from here. Two men dragged a shopper at gunpoint from her silver Ford Taurus.” Tight-lipped, he shook his head at the casual violence. “Officer spotted the Durango in the lot. Stolen plates.”

  He turned to Cort. “This professional-style hit goes a long way toward clearing you two of any suspicion. But don’t leave town. And I’ll need the number of that FBI agent.”

  “You have the address where we’re staying across the bay,” Cort said, pulling out his wallet. “Here’s Special Agent Al Kaplan’s card.”

  While the two men finished talking, Mara reached for her phone for something to do with her shaking hands. A message from Sandi gave Ellen Plante’s address but indicated the license number of the Durango would take longer.

  Mara keyed, TY addy. Lic NM. License, never mind.

  Chapter 17

  Cort left a voice-mail message for Kaplan. Toss-up who’d get to the agent first—him or the detective. He needed Kaplan to clear them with the Oakland PD so they could leave town.

  The two-story penthouse owned by Devlin Security Force was in an exclusive area south of Market Street and only blocks from the bay. Mara’d supposed if not for the fog creeping in they could see the Bay Bridge from the bank of living room windows.

  Devlin had good taste, for damn sure. Or his people did. Leather-upholstered furniture and paintings with objects or scenes a man could recognize, not just smears of color. Although the dining room boasted computer connections and desks along the wall, the table and chairs were of real cherry. Table had a classy touch—lengthwise strips of walnut and American holly down the center.

  On the way from Oakland, Mara had phoned her mother to postpone their dinner until tomorrow. After they looked around the condo, she disappeared with her overnight bag into the en suite master bedroom. Said she needed some time alone. He couldn’t blame her.