Her Last Chance

by Michele Albert

  He grunted, clearly struggling to keep his temper under control. “Who said anything about giving up? There’s no way in hell they really expect me to believe they’ve called it quits. This is their game, Claudia, not mine—and now they’re starting to seriously piss me off.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time the crime scene team arrived, Claudia had freshened up and pulled on a pair of Vincent’s cargo shorts.

  She recognized one of the detectives; he’d been at Champion and Stone after the helmet was stolen. His eyebrows nearly reached his receding hairline when he saw her; then he glanced at Vincent, snorted, and returned to talking shop with the other cops and an FBI agent.

  “Sindy” and “Susie” had left behind a final “gift,” one she and Vincent hadn’t seen right away because they’d stayed inside until the crime techs could secure the area: a neon-pink smiley face spray-painted on the back of Vincent’s house. From beneath the kitchen window, it overlooked the investigation with mocking amusement.

  Claudia saw Vincent’s gaze drift toward the hot pink paint, and he scowled. “What the hell did they have to do that for?”

  Claudia thought the reasoning obvious enough: embarrassment. She suspected Vincent knew the answer, as well, and was only letting off steam. He was actually handling the situation fairly well.

  She couldn’t blame him for being upset; she wasn’t too happy, either, because it made them both look bad. The officer patrolling the area had driven past Vincent’s house only fifteen minutes before the doorbell rang, and so far, the officers going door to door had found no one who’d seen either woman.

  Two young boys reported seeing a woman on a bicycle, but they hadn’t been able to provide a useful description: they’d been absorbed in a game of basketball and weren’t close enough to notice details. It had been determined that the flowers and card were purchased at a nearby discount store, but the clerk could remember only that a tall woman had paid cash for them.

  As if picking up on her thoughts, Vincent leaned over and said, “One left the flowers and the card to distract us while the other spray-painted my house. Same tag-team approach they’ve used all along.”

  “It works because they’re willing to wait for the right moment,” Claudia said. “And that alone raises them above the spur-of-the-moment, grab-and-run thieves.”

  “Maybe I should file this case away as a lost cause.” Vincent folded his arms across his chest. The scowl eased into an irritated frown. “Even if we catch them, prosecuting them will likely be a waste of time. We’re lucky if minor charges stick in these cases, and that’s assuming the insurance companies or owners even bother to press charges. Way too many of my cases never make it before a judge.”

  “And I bet that’s something else these women have picked up on—our tendency to focus more effort on retrieving stolen items than on prosecuting thieves.” She sighed. “Litigation is expensive in time and personnel, as well as money. I kinda get why they shrug it off once the property is recovered, but it sure as hell makes our job a lot more difficult.”

  The detective—she remembered his name was Matherson—sauntered over to join them. “Some crazy shit, huh?” he asked, shaking his head. “In all the years I’ve been a cop, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this.”

  “They wanted to be noticed,” Vincent said, his tone neutral. “I’d say they succeeded.”

  “I guess these mousies wanted to tease the cat.” Matherson glanced at Claudia. “Or cats. We’ll run the story in the news with Ms. Cruz’s descriptions; maybe someone will call in a useful tip. Aside from that, though, we got nothing. We’re not picking up any prints. The card and vase were clean.”

  “Have you sent anyone to question the kid at the bar I told you about?” Vincent asked. “He had a conversation with the short woman.”

  Matherson flipped through his notes. “It’s on the list. I’ll check. We’re still looking for Digger Brody, by the way. So far, no luck.”

  “If we’re lucky, he’ll turn up dead,” Claudia said. When both men stared at her, she went on, “Murder changes the whole scope of things, right? Juries can shrug off stealing expensive knickknacks, but dead bodies mean serious business.”

  “Me, I’m thinking Brody will be showing up a little worse for wear after a bender,” Matherson said. “Could be he’s with his buddies in Miami or Jersey, and I’ll look into that, too. But even if he turns up dead, you’d have your work cut out for you trying to prove they did it.”

  “There’s always the chance they’ll contact me again,” Vincent said after a pause. “I suppose that’s our best chance of catching them.”

  Claudia didn’t like that thought at all. It seemed far too risky for the women, but they’d proved they liked their games on the risky side—and there was always the possibility there were more than two of them.

  “They better not try it while I’m still around,” she said with feeling. “I swear, I’ll shoot them on the spot.”

  Matherson’s eyebrows rose yet again.

  “Claudia,” Vincent said, but his tone told her he was fighting back a grin.

  “Just a figure of speech.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  ***

  Vincent’s subsequent sour mood sank Claudia’s plans for their romantic evening. She knew he wasn’t angry with her and didn’t even blame him for his temper, but after a few attempts at kissing and cuddling led nowhere, she settled for simply being with him. The humiliation had hit him harder because it was directed at him specifically, but it didn’t sit so well with her, either.

  She’d had a few nights like this after the bad guys had gotten the better of her and understood what he was dealing with, so she didn’t try to coddle him or talk him out of his mood. It would only make matters worse.

  A little snooping around revealed that Vincent owned an Xbox, so she split her attention between keeping an eye on him, working at his desk, and Halo’s Master Chief. Shooting the shit out of everything made her feel a little better. After a while, seeing how much fun she was having at killing pixels, he joined her, and they played together. He slowly began to relax again, and by the time they hit the sheets, utterly exhausted, he made up for his earlier bad mood by making love to her with a lazy gentleness that was a perfect send-off to deep, dreamless sleep.

  She’d set the alarm early to allow plenty of time to get ready and drive to the airport. In Texas she’d meet with her contact, review the files, find a moment to sneak off and visit the family—her mother would never forgive her for not visiting if she was in the area, even if the “area” was the entire state of Texas. Then she’d spend the rest of the week, if not more, visiting churches and interviewing outraged priests about missing relics.

  It was still dark outside when the alarm blared, and she quickly rolled away from Vincent and shut it off, not wanting to wake him. She eased out of bed, holding back a groan: she was much stiffer this morning. Being stuck in an airplane seat for hours, even in first class, wouldn’t be fun.

  She made it to the bathroom without turning on any lights, bumping into a wall only once, and as she stood under the hot water, swearing under her breath at the stinging in her knees and elbows, she decided she needed a vacation. After this Texas job she’d ask Ben for a week off. Maybe he’d even allow her a few sick days, if she flashed her injured elbows and knees at him.

  Either way, she’d get back to Philly as soon as possible.

  The shower curtain was pulled back, and she yelped in surprise until she saw a stubble-scruffy Vincent standing outside, yawning.

  “Want company?” he asked. “You might need some help washing those hard-to-reach spots.”

  She grinned, tipping her face up for his kiss, and motioned him in. He shucked his shorts—revealing a most impressive morning erection—and stepped in beside her.

  He stuck his head under the running water, making a rumbling sound of male contentment as he rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, then ducked back out.

>   “Washed the hair yet?” he asked.

  “No, but that’s not exactly a hard-to-reach spot,” she pointed out, still grinning. He was furry as hell in the morning, but in such a cute manly-man way. She wanted to explore the texture of the beard stubble, then rub along his erection, but decided to hold off and see what he had in mind.

  All those delicious little fantasies she’d entertained would have to wait until she healed, but in the meantime she could give that arching, aggressive piece of male muscle a decent workout. Sex in the shower was so practical: you could have a little fun and get clean at the same time.

  After Vince gave her head a soapy massage she returned the favor, lathering his chest hair with extravagant swirls. Then, palms slick with suds, she lavished attention on his erection until he turned her around and, bracing their hands on the wall tiles, thrust into her from behind for a thoroughly satisfying quickie.

  Afterward he made coffee while she dressed, and served her a plate with two warm, gooey Pop-Tarts. Not the pseudo-healthy fruit-filled kind, either, but the frosted chocolate fudge kind.

  “Sex and chocolate. Dear God, where have you been all my life?” She broke the pastry in half. “But please tell me you don’t seriously eat this kind of stuff for breakfast. It’s worse than pizza.”

  He yawned. “I bought these the last time my nephew and sister-in-law dropped by for a visit.”

  “A family man, too,” she said, taking a tenuous bite. Mmmm, yummy, if a bit too rich this early in the morning. “That earns you even more points. I’m big on family.”

  “I’m Italian. It comes with the genes.”

  “And I’m Mexican. I know exactly how that works.” She paused, then asked, “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Three brothers and two sisters.”

  A silence fell between them, then Vincent said, “Where’s your family?”

  “They’re all in the Dallas area. Mom, Dad, brothers and sisters, grandmother, aunts and uncles, a small horde of nieces, nephews, and cousins . . . it can get pretty crazy during the holidays.”

  “It sure does.” Another silence, this one longer. “You’ll give me a call when you get settled in tonight?”

  “Definitely. I’ll be checking to make sure you’re okay. I don’t like leaving you, knowing those two are still out there somewhere.”

  “I can take care of myself, Claudia, and the police are aware of the situation.”

  “I know, I know. . . . But I can’t help worrying about you anyway. Promise you’ll keep yourself properly accessorized?”

  Vincent laughed. “I promise, but I seriously don’t think there’ll be any more trouble. The police have added an extra patrol to the area at night, and I can’t see those two women storming a federal building.”

  “Fine, but I’m still calling whenever I get the chance.”

  “And I’ll keep you posted if there are any new developments. Or if somebody finally runs Digger Brody to ground.”

  They were working up to good-bye, dancing around actually saying the words, but it was time for her to go. The only thing she could be happy about was that an early flight meant less traffic.

  “I have to get going,” she said finally.

  “Wait a sec while I grab my briefcase, and we’ll leave together,” he said. “I’ll follow you until your turnoff.”

  A flurry of activity followed: car keys jingling, pockets checked and double-checked for all necessities, her suitcase bumping against his briefcase. When she opened the door, he slammed it shut with his palm, took her shoulders, and pulled her against him for a long, deep kiss.

  When Claudia broke away, gasping for air, he traced the line of her jaw. “For the road—and because I can’t be there to see you off.”

  “Maybe next time,” she said as tears welled, stinging and hot. “Not that you really need any excuse to kiss me like that.”

  She’d never cried over a man before and hoped he hadn’t noticed her rapid blinking to clear the tears away. Tears achieved nothing and only made an awkward moment all the more difficult.

  Neither spoke as they walked to her car. Vincent took care of her luggage, and she thanked him quietly. She waited until he pulled out of the driveway before putting her car in gear, and watched him from her rearview mirror until she reached her turnoff. He honked and waved as she drove away.

  “I hate good-byes . . . hate them, hate them,” she muttered, wiping at her eyes again.

  The drive to the airport didn’t take long, and she checked her bags and went through security, then bought another coffee as she waited for her flight to begin boarding.

  Maybe it was only the lingering mood from their good-byes, but she couldn’t shake a sense of unease. She knew that the police and the FBI were doing their job and that Vincent would be more careful than usual. Besides, there wasn’t anything she could do that he couldn’t do for himself. If he were fussing over her like this, she’d be annoyed, and he’d feel exactly the same at her fussing. That kind of behavior would kill any chance for a relationship.

  Still, she couldn’t get over the feeling that she was letting him down just when he needed her most.

  An intercom crackled, and she glanced up. “Good morning. In just a few minutes, we’ll begin boarding for American Airlines flight number 1057 to Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, with intermediate service to . . .”

  Claudia finished off her coffee, still uneasy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Saturday, London

  Exhausted as he was, Will managed to keep up with Mia as she seized his arm and dragged him from the Knightsbridge tube entrance into Harrods to buy a small thank-you gift for her boss, who was babysitting her ferret back in Boston. It was their final day together, and there was no way he could’ve refused her.

  At slightly over one million square feet, the old department store was massive, squatting along an entire block on Brompton Road. It offered everything: haute couture for people and pets, cheese and chocolate, electronics and furniture, banking services, hair salons, and, of course, the mouthwatering Food Halls. No other department store boasted décor that ranged from opulent Egyptian themes to Art Nouveau, much less a life-size memorial to a dead princess hovering over an escalator. Anyone who thought the Mall of America was the epitome of shopping had never been to Harrods during the annual January sale. Will had endured the cutthroat chaos once and swore he’d never do that again.

  “So where to first?” he asked.

  “I thought we’d just wander a bit and see if anything strikes my fancy. I’m hoping we can eat while we’re here?”

  He laughed. “I can swing that. It all goes on my expense report anyway.” He took her hand, noting there were enough security guards around to fill the police force of a small town.

  A sign of the times, unfortunately.

  Mia had collected an impressive number of shopping bags by the time a display rack of shirts caught Will’s attention. If he was going to badger old Mrs. Whitlea, a nicer shirt and tie would be a good idea. Had she been an average sweet little old lady, he could’ve played the part of the charming, nicely respectable-looking man. At this point, though, he could safely eliminate “sweet” as applying to anyone, old or young, who gave Ben Sheridan his orders. As an interloper—and likely an unwelcome one—the only way he’d score any points with Mrs. Whitlea would be by giving her the respect she deserved, and part of that was to dress up, not down. As he browsed through a staggering assortment of shirts, Mia pitched in to help and headed a few aisles over to check out the selection of ties.

  ***

  “Hey! Don’t do that, it hurts.” Rainert stopped short, wincing as Vanessa’s fingers dug into his arm. He looked down to see her all but crawling into his suit coat, hiding. She’d been doing so well, and now this. She must’ve spotted someone she knew.

  Dammit, if she panicked, he’d have to ditch her. “What’s wrong? Vanessa, do—”

  “Sssh!” she hissed into his chest. “It’s him! That’s
him!”

  Rainert knew better than to turn and look. “Stop acting like this. Stop it now,” he ordered quietly. To mislead anyone who might be watching them, he bent and kissed her, pretending they were embracing. She stiffened but had the good sense not to fight him.

  “Kiss me back. Make it look like you’re kissing me because you’re excited, not scared.”

  She did as he told her, with more force than he expected. Though it was terror fueling her intensity, not desire, it wasn’t a bad kiss.

  “Who is here?” Rainert asked, pulling back enough to see her face. She was flushed, but that was due to fear not desire. From the corner of his eye, he pinpointed the nearest security guards. They weren’t watching, luckily. “I need you to calmly tell me who and where, and do not look around. Look only at me. At me, Vanessa. Focus.”

  Nodding, she moistened her lips. “Will Tiernay—the bastard who killed Kos! He’s looking at shirts behind you and to your right. Oh, God, I can’t believe this!”

  So much for his earlier cockiness about moving as freely as he wished. Still, what were the chances he would run into an Avalon agent here?

  “Is he alone?” Rainert asked.

  “Noooo . . . She’s with him. Mia.”

  No more Avalon agents, then. Mia was Tiernay’s girlfriend, the museum reproductionist from Boston. Apparently, they’d found time for a little tryst.

  “What are we going to do?” Vanessa whispered, frantic. “He’s right there!”

  “Right there” was between them and the quickest exit, and Rainert again discreetly tracked the location of the security guards.

  Reviewing his options, Rainert realized the surest way to get out of this mess would be akin to yelling fire in a crowded theater. Messy, but effective.

  “Stay with me, and when I tell you to run, you run. Got that?”

  She nodded, her skin shiny with perspiration.