by Rachel Caine
"And Detective Brown recommended you come to us?"
He didn't answer.
"Leonard," she said, and drew his eyes. "Tell me exactly why the police don't think she was abducted. You know I can find out with one phone call if I have to."
He looked down at his cross-trainers. "She might have taken some clothes."
"Money? Did she take cash?"
His hands washed each other, slowly. "She used her ATM card twice that night. But these carjacking guys, they do that, right? They make you get money out of the ATM. That's what happened. They made her do it."
"Does she have a cell phone?"
"Yes. It's off."
"And her car? Has it been spotted at all?"
"No. What about a chop shop? Maybe they cut it up for parts." Lucia wondered if he was thinking about the same thing happening to his missing wife.
"It's possible," she said. "The police have this information on file, if you gave it to them. They'll keep it in the database, and if anything turns up, they'll reactivate the case. It isn't that they don't necessarily believe you, Mr. Davis, it's that there isn't much to go on in this particular instance. You understand, don't you? The police have to focus on crimes that have definitely occurred, not ones that might have happened. The facts you've laid out for me could involve a woman who's gone missing, or a woman who doesn't want to be found."
Davis fidgeted, fingers pulling at the seams of his blue jeans. There were fading bruises on his knuckles, and she focused on them for a second before flicking her attention back to his shadowed face.
"I believe she's missing," he said. "I believe somebody took her and made her get that money. I want you to help me find her."
She sat back, considering him, Welton Brown's card cool between her fingers. Omar was still lounging in the corner, looking as if he was paying no attention, but intent on every movement.
Something was bothering her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. As she thought it over, trying to run it down, her cell phone rang.
"Excuse me," she said, and stood up to walk to a far corner, her back to Davis. Omar would be watching. Not much risk involved.
"Yo." Jazz. "Leonard Davis has two complaints against him for spousal abuse. KCPD has been to his house plenty of times. Sounds like a lively place."
"Have you talked to your friend Detective Brown recently?"
"Welton? No. Why?"
"This guy's carrying his card."
"Probably filed a missing persons on his wife. Ten to one, he's buried her in the backyard. Thinks he's clever. Brown may be using us to keep him busy while he does a murder investigation. That would be his style."
"I don't appreciate having my time wasted."
"Think of it as becoming a cog in the great wheel of justice."
Lucia said something pithy in Spanish, which was a waste, since Jazz hardly spoke a word. "So why would this guy engage with us, especially for money?"
"Makes him look honest when they dig his wife up from the melon patch."
Lucia turned slightly and glanced over her shoulder. Davis was leaning back now, straightening his baseball cap with his right hand.
And something clicked. Something she was sure Welton Brown must have noticed, as well.
"Keep digging," she told Jazz. "I don't mean in the melon patch."
"Funny."
She ended the call and walked back, slid into the seat and gave him a cool, professional smile.
"How'd you get the bruise on your hand, Mr. Davis?" she asked. He looked down and instinctively turned it palm upward, hiding the damage. "It looks like you got it about the time your wife dropped out of sight."
He didn't glance up at her. She saw the tension in him and felt a sudden shift in the room, as if gravity had subtly altered.
"I got into a fight," he answered.
"Let me put this to you as strongly as I can, Mr. Davis," Lucia said. She deliberately dropped her voice, slowed it, held his eyes with her own. "If you hurt your wife and she is in hiding, I will not track her down for you. Do you understand me?"
"I got into a fight at work. Look, it didn't have anything to do with Susannah, I'd never do anything to hurt her."
She could feel something weighing her down now, a conviction that was drawn from a thousand hints. The way his eyes cut away at the last second. The bruises. The too-direct stare during a denial. Tiny facial tics as he tried to fake sincerity.
She cut him off. "Our rates are a thousand dollars a day."
Davis sat back, mouth open, and then did that lightning-quick shift of his eyes again. "I see. So it's all about the money, right?"
"We work for a living, yes."
"If I give you the money, you'll find Susannah?"
Not, she noticed, save her. Not find out what happened to her. Just, simply, find.
She smiled thinly and stood up, settling her purse over her shoulder. "Not for any amount, Mr. Davis," she said. "Because I don't believe you. Either you've killed your wife or you'd badly like to finish what you started. Either way, we're not interested in helping you."
She expected him to grab, because—if she was right— that would be his automatic response. And he did. His hand shot out and closed on her arm. Squeezed—not with crushing force, because he was aware of Omar, who was straightening up behind her, and the security guards behind the desk. But with enough strength to send a hot jolt of agony up through her shoulder.
She didn't let it affect her cool, professional mask. "You'll want to take your hand off of me now, Mr. Davis," she said. "Before something unfortunate happens."
"I said I need your help!" He didn't sound helpless; he sounded angry. She understood that anger could be a correct response, especially when a loved one was missing. But his anger was off-key. Narcissistic.
"Yes," she agreed, and pulled her arm free. "You did. Now I'd advise you to go look for an attorney."
Seen up close, those eyes were probably his greatest asset. The kind of little-boy eyes that lulled women into trusting, into believing his apologies, into letting down their guard.
His eyes lied better than the rest of him.
He stepped back. "You've got the wrong idea about me."
"Maybe so. And if that's the case, then I will be sincerely sorry. But I can't take the chance."
She nodded to Omar, and walked away to the security desk. The two guards looked attentive.
"Escort him out," she said. "He doesn't come back inside."
"Yes, ma'am."
In the elevator, Omar didn't say a word, but he was watching her with interest. She felt tired. Achy. Wanted to collapse back into her warm, soft bed and sleep for days.
"What?" she asked.
He shrugged as he pushed the button for the parking garage. "Kinda hard on the guy."
"He's had numerous abuse complaints."
"Doesn't mean she's not missing."
"It might mean that she's missing on purpose, and the last thing she needs is us bringing this guy to her doorstep."
"Sometimes I think you don't like people very much," he said.
"People, meaning men?"
Another shrug.
"I like men just fine," she said. "I just like them better when they're not lying their asses off to me."
Omar's dimples flashed as he smiled. "You don't get a lot of dates, huh?"
"Not second ones."
The door creaked open at the well-lit parking level, and Omar went out first, presenting an unmissable target should anyone be taking aim. He didn't even think about doing it. It was his job. She admired that, even while she couldn't quite understand the mentality behind it.
"Clear," he said, after scanning the area. She stepped out from behind him, and they walked quickly toward the SUV.
She had no warning, but suddenly she felt a powerful shove to the left, felt the world tilt, and landed hard on her side. She rolled instinctively, holding her head up to keep from hitting the concrete floor, and landed next to a fat gray pillar. She hadn'
t thought about drawing her gun, but it was out, both hands bracing it in textbook firing position.
"Easy," Omar was saying. He was still standing out in the open, having executed his first priority—moving her out of the line of fire. He was holding up both empty hands and trying to look as inoffensive as possible, which was odd behavior for any bodyguard, but Omar in particular. Lucia edged forward and peered around the barrier, hunting a target.
A woman was standing in front of him. Thin, fragile, with short dark hair and ivory-pale skin that showed off a lurid array of bruises. Half her face was swollen almost beyond recognition.
She had a gun trained on Omar.
"Easy," he said again, and held his hands higher when she flinched. "Nobody's here to hurt you."
"I need your help," she blurted. There were tears running from her eyes, streaking silver down her face. She slurred her words, thanks to a badly swollen lip. "Please."
It came to Lucia in a lightning flash of comprehension, and she slowly stood up, holstered her gun and stepped out from behind the pillar, hands raised.
"Susannah?" she asked. "Susannah Davis? You don't have to be afraid now. You're safe. We're not working for your husband. My name is Lucia Garza."
Chapter Eight
Susannah stood very still, staring at Lucia, and then slowly lowered the gun. As if she'd used the last of her strength to hold it up, she collapsed to her knees.
Omar started to move forward, then stopped and looked back at Lucia. "Maybe you should—"
"I'll help her." She nodded, and moved in to slowly bend down and pull the gun from the woman's unresisting hand. Omar relaxed. Lucia handed the weapon to him and leaned down to take Susannah's weight on her shoulder. The woman was heavier than she looked. Solid muscle. She seemed out of it; Lucia took the opportunity to do a quick pat-down, but found no additional weapons.
"He might have tracked her here," Omar said. "Maybe wasn't looking to hire you at all, just got caught following her and decided to try to make the best of it."
"Very possible."
"Could be trying to get down here to the parking level."
"That'll take a while," Lucia said. "But let's not get cocky. Open up the track, help me get her inside."
He moved. Together, they got Susannah into the SUV and belted her in. Omar fired up the engine and cruised up the ramp toward sunlight.
As they exited into the white-hot glare, Omar said, "Bend over, Mrs. Davis. Head down. If he's out here, I don't want him getting a look at you."
Susannah slowly, painfully hunched over. Lucia scanned the street through the tinted windows and paused on a green Ford Expedition parked a block away. The engine was idling, and she was almost sure the indistinct figure in the driver's seat was wearing a red baseball cap.
Son of a bitch.
They cruised by. Omar didn't even look toward the other truck, but Lucia was sure he'd noted it. Unless Davis changed vehicles, he wouldn't be able to follow undetected.
"Okay," Omar said, and reached over to help Susannah back to a sitting position. She rested her head against the upholstery, whimpering slightly. Omar's gaze met Lucia's in the rearview mirror. "Hey, boss lady. You know a friendly doctor?"
"As a.matter of fact, I do," she said. "Turn right—"
"No doctors," Susannah croaked. "I'm fine. Nothing's broken."
"At least we can get you some painkillers—"
"I'm used to it," she said, and straightened up. Her slurred voice sounded stronger. "Thanks, but no. No doctors. I'll be okay."
"You could have a concussion."
"No doubt about it," Susannah said, with a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. "I was looking for you. Well, your firm, anyway. This detective, he said—"
"Welton Brown?"
"Yeah. I need protection. He said I should talk to you guys. I didn't want—I couldn't say anything about my husband. Not to the police."
Lucia exchanged another look with Omar, who turned left at the light, heading for the freeway. "Detective Brown also talked to your husband."
"Yes," she said, and let her head drop back against the upholstery again. "The story is that I was attacked by a mugger. That's what he told them. I had no choice. I had to agree."
"Because?" Lucia asked. Susannah painfully turned toward her.
"Because I already tried going to the police," she said. "All that happened was that when he got out, which took a grand total of less than thirty days for all three arrests, he took it out on me. I've moved. Hell, I moved here from New Mexico. Look what it got me. You don't know him. You don't know what he does for a living."
Tears shone hard silver in her eyes again, and she blinked them back.
"I need help," she said. "I need time to decide what to do. I have money. I can pay you."
"If you need to disappear, there are shelters—"
"He knows all about them. Believe me, he's an expert at this, and he's got people working for him. They'll find me. I have to use my ID and social security number to get a new job, a new apartment—he catches up. I need somebody who can get me a new life." Susannah's breath hitched unevenly, and she shifted, eyes shutting against some inner pain. "I know things. Things that can put him in prison forever. I just need—I need some time to think about it. Make plans. A few days. I wasn't lying—I have money. I'll pay you whatever you ask, just keep me safe and hidden for a while. Please."
Lucia stared straight ahead, thinking. She had contacts who could provide new ID, forged documents, clean social security numbers. Once Susannah's face healed, Lucia had people who could even provide her with some subtle plastic surgery to change the contours of her face. Make her plain or pretty, but different.
Those were contacts she hadn't used in years. A part of her life she'd hoped she'd never have to acknowledge again. But that life had made her what she was now, the way broken bones sometimes mended stronger.
"Maybe," she said. "First priority is to take you someplace safe, so you can rest. You look ready to collapse."
Lucia settled back in the seat, took out her phone and called Jazz.
Omar made the last two turns and slowed the SUV. It was a bleak industrial area, all solid blocks of buildings with grimed windows and blank concrete faces. He slowed to a crawl in the middle of the block. "There?"
It was a warehouse, just like the rest. Three stories, windows on the top floor and a blank front below with three roll-up doors, all rusted and apparently securely fastened.
"That's it."
"So how do we get in, exactly?"
"Pull up to the door."
He turned the SUV up the incline and to an idling stop at the bay door. Nothing happened.
"And?" he asked.
"Wait"
They waited. After three or four minutes of silence, the bay door began to move upward—not slow and creaking, as you would have guessed from the looks of it, but smooth and silent, and much faster than a typical garage door.
"Go. Manny won't keep it open long." And true to her word, the door began to crank back down when the SUV was halfway through. Omar swore and hit the gas, and even so the door barely missed the back bumper of the truck. "Park under the light."
There was a single working light on the ground level, illuminating a patch of bare concrete floor. Everything else was in inky darkness, except for the slight suggestion of a staircase over to the side. Omar pulled the truck up as instructed and put it in Park.
"Engine off," an amplified voice ordered, loudly enough to penetrate the closed windows of the SUV. Omar shot Lucia an amused, questioning look, and she nodded for him to follow instructions. She rolled down her window, and Omar did the same.
"Manny!" she called. "It's Lucia!"
"I can see that." He didn't sound pleased, not pleased at all. Manny Glickman, on his own ground, seemed a lot more commanding. "And before you even ask, the answer's no."
"Manny—"
"No. Sorry. Can't come inside."
Omar opened his door and
stepped out, looking around. Lucia sighed and got out, too, walking around to join him. He didn't seem very impressed. "This is it?"
"No," she said. "Believe me, there's a lot more to it than this. Manny, can't we just come upstairs and talk about it?"
"Too many people."
"I can vouch for Omar—"
"No room at the inn, Lucia. Sorry, but that's how it is."
The last of that was delivered in person, an echoing voice from the bottom of the stairs. He shuffled out of the shadows and into the pool of light, looking different from the man who'd taken charge back at the office yesterday. He slumped, which spoiled what might have been an otherwise impressive entrance. Having Pansy in his life had been a good influence, but he was still phobic, still flinched at loud, unexpected noises, and he did not enjoy company. Having Lucia, Omar and a strange woman on his virtual doorstep wasn't waking any innate feelings of hospitality.
"Look," he said, "I like you, okay? I like you fine. You come alone, you're welcome. You call for help, I do what I can. But you're coming to my house right now without asking first, and look, you brought people. I need you to go."
"This woman's in trouble. Manny, you have the safest place in the city. Put her up for just a few days—"
"No!" he snapped, then looked away. "I'm sorry, but no. I'm not the friggin' Witness Protection Program, here. I do consulting forensic work. I took in Jazz 'cause she's family. Pansy…" He tried to come up with a phrase, and failed. "I'm not running a dorm. I'm out of room."
"You're kidding," Omar said, and looked at the size of the ground floor. "Upstairs has to be a couple hundred thousand square feet."
"No."
Lucia held up a hand—not to Manny, to Omar. "It's all right," she said. "Manny, it's your space, I completely understand and respect that. I was asking for a favor. You can choose not to give it. That's all right."
Manny flush faded from hot rose to a dull pink. "I can't. I can't have strangers here right now. Please, Lucia. I need you to go away."
His gaze kept moving from Lucia to Susannah in the SUV, irresistibly drawn, and then snapping back as if what he saw frightened him. It probably did. Manny had some bad, bad images in his head, and a trauma that had hardwired him against ever risking himself again. He didn't like criminal cases, avoided them at all costs, and he put his personal security ahead of most everything else. Including, sometimes, his friends.
