He lived in an older part of town, an ethnically mixed, middle-class neighborhood that was mostly empty between 6:00 am and 6:00 pm. Now lights and TV screens glowed behind curtains and blinds, and his neighbors were out jogging or walking dogs. Vincent drove with the windows down, clearing the office stuffiness from his head, and over the sounds of crickets, car engines, and barking dogs, he could hear children laughing.
It lifted his mood, and he waved to his neighbor as he pulled into his driveway. The flare of headlights showed how badly his grass needed mowing and that his sorry-ass flower garden needed watering. A red rubber ball was wedged in the bushes by the porch, which meant the kids had been using his yard as a soccer field again.
“Hey, Vinnie!”
He turned, shutting the car door with his heel, plastic grocery bag and six-pack in one hand, briefcase and suit coat in the other. Jennie was an attractive divorcée in her forties, and she waved at him from where she sat on her porch steps, smoking a cigarette and temporarily escaping her four hyperactive sons.
Vincent suspected she wouldn’t mind getting a little friendlier with him, but as much as he liked her, the consequences of sleeping with a woman who had four fatherless boys kept him well out of her range. “How’s it going, Jennie?”
“Ain’t melted yet. And you? Catch any terrorists today?”
She knew he chased art thieves, but she liked to tease him about it. He couldn’t really blame her; chasing terrorists sounded a hell of a lot more glamorous. “Nope, no terrorists in downtown Philly, unless you count taxi drivers. It was a quiet day.”
Her laugh followed him inside his house, and he sighed with relief at the cooler air. He took a quick shower while the pizza cooked and the beer chilled to perfection in the freezer, and by the time he’d shaved and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, dinner was done.
Vincent clicked on the TV, flopped back onto the couch, and grabbed a slice of pizza. As he opened his mouth to take a bite, his cell phone went off. Scowling, he searched for it under the pile of mail and newspapers on the coffee table. “Yeah?”
“Vinnie, it’s me. Steve.”
The agent he’d assigned to follow Claudia Cruz. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Just checking in.”
“Where’s Cruz?”
“Sitting in her car, down the street from your place.”
What the hell? This was a new tactic for her. Vincent headed to the living room window and separated the slats of the venetian blinds, peering out. Through the trees and bushes, street signs and fire hydrants, he glimpsed a familiar sporty Pontiac rental, the fading light shining along its white paint. “I see her.”
“She followed you home,” Steve added, unnecessarily.
A tail that he’d failed to notice. Then again, he hadn’t expected her to follow him. The day’s itchy, restless anger flared, and he snapped, “Jesus Christ! Isn’t anyone trying to catch the bad guys here? You follow her, she follows me, and I’m—”
Drinking beer and eating pizza.
Anger ebbed, leaving behind guilt. But it was stupid to feel guilty about taking the time to eat a home-cooked meal—or as home-cooked as it ever got, these days. Maybe he should’ve listened to his mother and gone into teaching. Little kids terrified him, but the older ones weren’t so bad.
“You want me to get rid of her, Vinnie?”
“No.”
He tried locating Claudia inside the car but couldn’t get a clear view. Then, a sudden, unpleasant thought came to him. “Have you seen any movement in the car?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
A pause. “Uh . . . there’s a lot of branches in the way, but I’d see her if she got out of the car.”
Vincent let the slats drop back into place. “And you can’t clearly see the passenger side, can you?”
“No.” Again, a brief silence. “Is something wrong?”
“We’ll find out. Meet me by her car.”
Vincent disconnected, cast a regretful look at his beer, making a small puddle of condensation beside his congealing pizza, and then walked outside.
Before he even reached Claudia’s car, he knew she was gone. Steve was waiting for him, looking both incredulous and angry as he began to explain.
Holding up a hand, Vincent said, “She knew you’d assume she was here to watch me. If I’d been you, I would’ve made the same mistake.”
“So she parked here to distract us and took off?” Agent Steve Auckland was a stocky man with a florid face; pale eyes; thinning, reddish hair; and a thick neck. He looked every inch the ex–college football star.
“Exactly.”
“She ditched us,” Steve said, flatly. “What the fuck? Where’s she going?”
“Beats me, but she’ll have to come back for the car.” Vincent tried the door and wasn’t surprised to find it open. After all, she’d parked in a nice neighborhood and across the street from an FBI agent. She’d even left the keys tucked under the visor.
An invitation? Even if not intended as such, it was one now.
“You can call it a night,” he said, glancing back at Steve. “Go on home. I’ll wait for her to get back.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Live and learn. We’ll know better next time.”
Vincent waited until Steve’s black SUV drove away before he locked Claudia’s car and took the keys back inside with him. Hours passed as he finished his dinner, then worked on his laptop while cable news played out in the background, and through it all he waited for her to ring his doorbell.
After the night turned pitch black, he grabbed his cell phone and her car keys, then crossed the now-quiet street, listening to the buzzing of insects as they circled the lamppost and still feeling the day’s heat in the air.
As he unlocked Claudia’s rental car and sat inside to wait, something like unease hovered on the edge of his thoughts, though he tried to avoid facing it directly.
She was a big girl, and one who’d ended her career with the Dallas police department after shooting an unarmed man in the back.
Hell, yes, she could take care of herself.
Chapter Three
The apartment lock clicked, then the door creaked as it swung open.
About damn time, too. After hours in this aromatic pigsty, Claudia’s eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and she raised her gun, aiming with a steady, two-handed grip at the stocky figure illuminated in the doorway by the hallway lights.
“Don’t move. I’m armed and bored outta my mind from waiting for you to haul your sorry ass home, Digger Brody.”
Brody couldn’t see her, but even his reptilian brain knew when to freeze. Then he snapped, “Who the fuck—”
“I’m not the cops. I’m not here to cause trouble,” Claudia interrupted. “I just have a few questions to ask, and I can make it worth your time to answer them. Now shut the door . . . slowly.”
“Yeah?” He slammed the door shut instead. “Worth my time in what way?”
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Brody gave her trouble. Her mood had been ugly before waiting hours for a guy who might not even be of any use to her, and she needed to work out the snarling tension that had been snapping at her heels all day.
But she couldn’t afford the trouble, she reminded herself. “In the way your kind likes best, Brody, so lose the sleaze. Keep your hands where I can see them, and don’t turn on the light.”
“How do I know you got a gun if I can’t—”
Claudia fired, the silencer making a muffled, metallic sound. The bullet hit the wall above his head, and he flinched, letting loose a stream of curses as white plaster dust showered down.
“Believe me now?”
She could sense his red-hot rage from across the small room, but he raised his hands and didn’t turn on the light. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Nobody interested in your personal affairs. What you do to keep yourself in such fine comforts is between you and the Philadelphia cops,
not me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I got no problem with the—”
“You fence stolen property for the mob, Brody. I’ve been asking questions, and your name keeps coming up regarding the kind of property I’m interested in. I need information about the theft at Champion and Stone, and the one a few months back at the Alliance Gallery.”
“I don’t move that kind of shit.”
“Let’s not get off to a bad start with lies.”
The scent of Brody’s sweat wafted her way on air-conditioned currents—an air conditioner that rattled and wheezed like it smoked two packs a day. She wanted the lights off to keep Brody from seeing her face, but she also didn’t want to look at the piles of fuzzy dishes and trash.
“I don’t know who hit those two places. It wasn’t local business,” Brody said, his voice heavy with sarcasm and resentment. “So how come you want to know? And what’s in it for me if I talk with you? Not promising you answers, understand, but I’m willing to listen to what you got to offer.”
Back in the day, when she’d worn the badge, she’d have gladly taken down a bottom-feeder like Brody. But those days were over and done. “I hear you had some buddies working over a crack dealer in that part of town, and that they saw something.”
“Maybe they did.”
He hadn’t moved and kept his arms in the air as she’d ordered, but she still didn’t trust him. The man looked like he could wrestle a bull and win. She kept the gun aimed at the center of his chest.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Claudia said flatly. “A thousand dollars for what your friends saw last night, and there’s more where that comes from if you keep me informed and play nice.”
A brief silence. “Five.”
“Brody, don’t make me shoot you outta pure irritation.” Good. She had his attention. “A thousand’s all I got on me at the moment.”
Even without being able to see him, she knew what he was thinking. He wanted to take her out and grab the money, but a healthy respect for her gun kept him from making a move. There was also the greed: why settle for a grand if he had a chance to con more out of her? It was a game, and they both knew how it worked.
“If you ain’t the cops, who are you?”
“You could say I’m working for someone with a lot of money. So did these friends of yours see anything or not?”
Greed won out, as she’d expected, and he answered, “Nothing that will help you much, just some chick in the back alley by the Dumpster. She was carrying a box. Probably worked for the cleaning crew.”
“What did this woman look like? How big was the box? Did she leave in a vehicle?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t there.”
Claudia sighed loudly. “Little Otis told me you were, so we can cut the ‘friends’ shit now, too.”
“Little Otis?” Brody laughed softly. “I don’t believe it.”
“He only needed a little extra persuasion to talk.” Of the monetary sort, but she let Brody assume the worst of her.
“You serious?” Brody demanded, his tone incredulous. “You beat him up?”
“There’s a reason they call the man ‘little.’ Answer my question.”
“And if I change my mind cuz I don’ like how you treat my associates?”
Associates? A high and mighty word for such low-life bastards. She almost snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. “Your loss. I take my money and walk out the door.”
“You gonna shoot me then?” Now the tone turned mocking.
Claudia held on to her temper. “As much as I’d like to, no. I told you, I’m not here to mess with your personal business. I just want answers. The offer still stands, Brody, but not for much longer.”
Silence followed as he mulled it over, drawing out the silence as long as he dared. “Okay, but you gotta understand I was, uh, busy and not paying a lot of attention. She was young; average build; short, dark hair; and she had on black pants and a shirt. I didn’t wait around to see if she got in a car, called a cab, or hopped on a bus or the train. The box was . . . I dunno, box-sized. Not real small, but not real big, either.”
“Did she look like a homeless person?”
“Nope. Clean and pretty.”
“You could see that at three in the morning?”
“There’s a light at the back, by the Dumpster. Just a quick look, but I could tell she was clean. She was wearing lipstick. Glossy stuff.”
“All right. Now what have you heard about the Alliance Gallery theft?”
“Like I said, whoever pulled that job wasn’t local business.”
She couldn’t say for sure if he was telling the truth. Looking him straight in the eyes in full light might’ve helped, if he wasn’t a pathological liar. Still, she finally had something more than guesses to work with—and something she hadn’t expected. Males usually way outnumbered females when it came to stealing and fencing.
“Fair enough. You gave answers, so I’ll pay up. Sit over there by the sink and keep your hands on your head.”
“I got no gun on me.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. Now move.”
He did, but toward her. Expecting it, Claudia swore and ducked. Brody moved fast for a man of his bulk, and his shoulder caught her a glancing blow, rocking her back against the wall. She dropped when he came at her again, his hand snaking toward her gun.
“Stop!” She aimed at his face. “I will shoot.”
Maybe it was the cold, flat tone of her voice—or knowing it wouldn’t matter much to the cops if they found one more body shot full of holes in North Philly—but he went still, then raised his hands. “Had to try.”
“Back off. Now. And keep your hands up.” When he’d stepped out of reach, she ordered, “Stop.”
“You gonna shoot me?” he asked again, this time with a cold, eerie calmness that matched her own.
“You ever hurt the helpless, Brody? Women? Little kids or old people?”
“No.” His lip curled, as if offended. “That ain’t my style.”
“Good,” Claudia said softly. “Then I won’t kill you tonight. Take off your belt.”
“Hey, hey, girl, you want me as bad as that, and I—”
Claudia fired, then raised her voice over his curses and said, “You know, the first time I shot and killed a man, it bothered me. Second time, not so much. Now I don’t even lose any sleep over it.”
After letting the threat sink in, she said, “Take off your belt and wrap it around your ankles, good and tight. Then roll over and put your hands behind your head, fingers laced. You know the routine, I’m sure.”
When he did as she ordered, she approached, gun steady, rammed her knee and gun into his back, then secured his hands with a plastic tie. She rolled him to his back, moving her knee and the gun to his chest, and pulled out the wallet chained to her belt. After peeling off a wad of cash, she tucked the bills into his waistband.
“Can’t say I don’t keep my word. A thousand dollars, Brody, and here’s my business card.” She slipped the card into the pocket of his jeans. “If you hear anything more, call me. Leave a message if I don’t answer. I’ll get back to you.”
“Bitch,” he muttered, gasping a little as she lifted her knee from his diaphragm. “Ugly-ass cunt.”
Claudia sighed. “That’s the first time any man’s ever talked trash to me after I stuffed money down his pants. What’s a lady gotta do to get a little respect, huh?” She pressed the thick, heavy sole of her shoe over his groin, hearing air rasp through his teeth as he sucked in his breath, his body going rigid. “Well, yeah, there’s always that consolation prize of soul-suckin’ terror. Don’t try to follow me, homeboy. Not in such a good mood today.”
Vincent stretched his stiff limbs as best he could, then glanced at his watch and grimaced. He was crazy as hell, sitting in a car and waiting for a woman he didn’t even like. He’d already had to explain himself to one patrol cop; he didn’t need to do it again.
“Fuck
this,” he muttered.
Claudia had probably gone back to her hotel, laughing at him all the way. Whatever he had to say to her could wait for when she finally came hassling him for her keys. He swung out of the car, and as he started to lock the door, a noise caught his attention. He tipped his head, listening. Definitely footsteps coming his way, and at this time of night in this neighborhood, who else could it be?
A moment later, a figure emerged from the shadows: tall, long legs, curves in all the right places. She wore jeans, a dark, belly button–baring T-shirt, and a sleeveless denim vest that brushed her hips. Not her usual style; even if it had been the middle of January, he’d expect more skin.
“Claudia.”
“Vincent. How sweet of you to wait up for me like an overprotective daddy.”
Not the comparison he’d have chosen, considering his usual reaction to her. “Philly’s a rough town. Not too smart to walk around by yourself this late.”
She came to a stop in front of him in the pale glow of a streetlight, and despite the sticky heat of a summer night, she looked beautiful. A puff of breeze caught a wisp of hair on the side of her mouth, and he almost reached up to brush it away.
“Were you worried about me?”
That mouth curved in a smile, and Vincent met her gaze. He considered denying it, but his pride got the best of him, and he said instead, “I don’t like you, but I don’t want to see you hurt while you’re out trying to get a leg up on me.”
Surprise flashed across her face, quickly suppressed—but not quickly enough. He waited for a bitchy comeback, a sly dig. After a few uncomfortable seconds passed, he prompted, “Well, did you?”
“Did I what?”
Was he hearing things, or did she actually sound . . . subdued? “Get a leg up on me.” The instant the words left his mouth, he realized they were the wrong choice.
Her Last Chance Page 3
