At the name of the lead detective on the Sterling case, Sam stepped closer to the table, and JP. “You do?”
“Frankly, I think he’s a damn good cop,” JP continued, turning to her. “Have you dealt much with him?”
“A little,” she said, thinking about the police detective who’d been her main contact since she’d witnessed the murder. “He took my statement the day after the murder and brought me in to the South End station three times last week to review it. He went in and out of the room while I looked at pictures of possible suspects and…” She tried to remember how much she’d seen of him on her last trip to the station. “He might have been there when I met with a sketch artist, but I think that was his partner, Detective Larkin. There were too many cops around for me to be certain.”
“And you’re nervous when you’re there,” JP said sympathetically. “Understandable. I don’t know Larkin, but I know O’Hara. He’s kind of a hardass, I’ll give you that, but a straight shooter. So, just to be on the safe side, I’ll do some very, very quiet digging around.”
For a moment, Zach didn’t answer, still sizing up his cousin as though trying to decide where to land a punch. Then he nodded once, which felt, to Sam, like a huge concession.
“In the meantime,” JP added, pointing an assertive finger at Sam but looking at Zach, “get her somewhere safe and keep her under constant surveillance. The guy who did this was a professional; almost no one on this case disputes that. We got a trained killer on our hands, and if he needs to get rid of a witness to finish the job, he will. In Sam’s case, it’s just easier for him if the cops are looking the other way, making it even more dangerous for her.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Zach said, his tone flat enough that Sam couldn’t tell if it was sarcastic or not.
JP headed out, then paused at the door, looking at Sam. “Let me ask you a question, Sam. Could you ID the killer in a lineup?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I’ve made a mistake in the past.”
“We all have. At some point, you just have to move on.” He gave her a tight smile. “Let me know if you need anything. You, too, Zach.”
Zach gave a noncommittal grunt as he missed an easy shot. With a shrug, he put the cue stick back and walked over. “You can get the three in the corner, if you use a little English.”
“Zach, aren’t you at all concerned about this notation thing he’s talking about?”
“I take everything JP says with a boulder of salt.” He put his hands on her shoulders and inched her closer. “Lean over.”
The order, delivered in her ear with just enough force to ruffle her hair, sent chills down her body. From behind, he engulfed her, wrapping his arms around her to hold the cue stick with her, leaning her forward so her backside nestled into his crotch.
“Now aim the cue at that cushion, see? Halfway between the pockets. It should bounce right off and hit the three into the side.”
She couldn’t even find the three ball. The sea of green felt before her practically disappeared at the heat of his body making full contact with hers.
“Zach…”
“Just take the shot, Sam.”
“You’re not going to ask Marc, are you?”
She felt him exhale, more warm breath on her cheek. “I can’t.”
The little hitch in his voice tore her heart. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both. I can’t trust anyone else to do the job as thoroughly as it needs to be done. And… I won’t… tempt you or us to do anything. You have my word.”
She let out a soft laugh. “What exactly do you think you’re doing right now?” Tempting the hell out of her.
“I’m playing pool.” He pulled the stick back and whacked it, totally controlling the shot while she did nothing. “We’re going to have to do something to pass the time.”
The way he said “something” make her insides roll like the cue ball over the felt as it hit the cushion; then the three clunked right into the pocket.
He didn’t let her go.
She tried to straighten. “Well, we’re not going to do this.”
“Play pool?”
“Play full body contact.”
He eased up, but didn’t let go. “I want to be the one to keep you safe, Sammi.” His voice was low and soft and intimate. “Me. Not Marc. Not anyone else.” It sounded like the admission pained him.
“But this isn’t safe,” she said, turning her face enough so that their cheeks brushed. “This…” Was going to hurt so much when it was over. Didn’t he realize that? “Scares me.”
Very slowly, he stepped back, breaking all contact. “I knew I scared you.”
He meant his eye, his scar. She meant something else completely. “You’ve already hurt me once, Zach,” she whispered as she turned to face him.
“This is different.”
Different? It didn’t feel different. Her blood was on fire. Her pulse was jumping. Her skin was electrified. Her hands were aching to touch him. And her mouth? Hot for a kiss. It wasn’t any different from the last time they were together, only this time, she knew the cost of all that lovely sensuality.
“I just don’t know if this is a good idea for us to be… isolated.” Weak. She sounded as weak as she felt.
“You prefer Marc, then?” His voice was gruff, his brow drawn in a dark frown. “With perfect vision, a master shot, and no messy history to muddy the waters?”
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. “No.” Oh, God. “I just don’t want to get hurt again.”
“The whole purpose is to ensure that you don’t get hurt.”
Was he playing games or did he really not get it? She’d been devastated by his disappearance. “Then tell me what happened,” she said, surprising herself with the request. “I have to know or else I can’t trust you again.”
He touched his scar, shaking his head. “Can’t. It’s classified.”
“Not your injury. Mine. Here.” She touched her heart. “Why did you walk out and then… nothing? Why did you do that to me, Zach?”
Pain darkened his face. “It’s not important.”
“It is to me,” she shot back. “I can’t go hole up with you in some safe house without knowing, Zach. I have to know.”
“You already know; you just don’t realize it.”
She closed her eyes with a soft exhale. “Things need to be said, Zach, and I want you to say them.” It was the only way she could survive.
“Nothing needs to be said.” He put his hands on her face, holding her cheeks, his fingers warm and strong and so big on her. “Can’t we just forget that ever happened?”
Was he crazy? Forget those nights? That passion? The most amazing days and nights of her life? Forget them? “No,” she whispered.
“Please, Sam, we can just… start over.” He inched her closer, torture all over his face, agony for how bad he wanted to kiss her. She could see it, because he looked like she felt. Wanting, wanting it so much.
“Start ov—”
He stopped her words with a kiss, covering her mouth, his lips like a brand, burning, shocking.
She pulled back. “How can we start over?” she asked, her voice shaky and raspy from the impact of the kiss. “We never finished.”
“Yes, we did.” He stepped back, fast and hard, leaving her cold and achy. “Not neatly, maybe, but we did.”
“Zach, ple—”
He cut her off with a wave, clearly angry with his lack of control. “Look, I’m… I won’t do that again. I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t kiss you again, Sam.”
As he walked out of the room, she just stared at the doorway, aching from her mouth straight down to every other body part that had just been teased by his touch.
“I hope not,” she said. But deep inside, she knew that was a lie.
CHAPTER 9
He waited in the bushes for fifteen minutes, watching the couple stare at Fox News in their living room, a lit
tle Yorkie asleep on the sofa next to the old lady. Then Levon glanced at the upstairs apartment and felt relatively certain it was empty. Relatively.
Because who’d stay home waiting for a killer to drop by and do his thing? Understandable that Miss Samantha Fairchild would hide. Giving him plenty of time to do some research. Because the more he knew about a victim, the easier it was to do his job and not leave a shred of evidence.
And that was why he was the Czar.
He considered his options. That dog had to pee sometime, so one of the old folks would probably come out to the front, leaving the door to the building open. Levon might be able to slip in, run up the stairs, and break into the upstairs apartment. But that was a little riskier than he liked.
His best bet was the back, he decided after circling. It would take some climbing, but he could get up there. Still, he waited until the dog jumped off the sofa and the man stood, complaining.
At that moment, he hustled around the back, eyed the balcony, and tried to figure out how to get up there.
Which he did in very little time, clearing the back window just as the light in that bathroom came on. He had to hang for a few seconds while Mama relieved herself; then she left the room, and he took the chance of making some noise, using the drainpipe and pulling himself up to Samantha Fairchild’s back door.
It wasn’t chain locked; another sign she wasn’t home. He picked the lock in less than three minutes, leaving no outward signs that anything other than a key had done the job, opening the door carefully in case there was an alarm that would require him to jump and run.
Silence.
He slipped inside and glanced around, moving stealthily to the front door, also unchained. And, oh, that was cute. She kept a plant by the door so if anyone came in and knocked it over, she’d see spilled dirt.
So, she was scared. And on guard. That would make it more difficult, but not impossible. Finding Ms. Fairchild had been laughably easy; killing her would be simple, too. He preferred not to do it in her home, although he certainly would if that was the most expedient way. But the Czar’s MO was always to do his work in the most crowded place. Like a busy restaurant on a Saturday night, where there were so many, many possible suspects.
And, preferably, no witness. Sadly, this one had complicated his life and job, so she had to die. But first, he needed some information about his victim.
He stood in the living room, letting his eyes adjust, taking it in. He examined the bookcase, always a good way to learn a little about a person. Her tastes ran to legal thrillers—probably where she learned the plant trick—and romance. Some family pictures, Mom and Dad, two much older brothers. No family of her own.
Oh, and look at that. A whole shelf of law books. Surviving Justice… Wrongly Convicted… When Justice Goes Wrong… True Stories of False Confessions. There must have been twenty books on the same subject.
Levon looked around, ignoring the simple, cozy furnishings, and headed toward the hallway to the bedroom. One room was a quasi-office, guest, storage thing with… more books about the legal system. On the bulletin board, front and center, a letter from Harvard Law School.
Dear Ms. Fairchild… congratulations, you have been accepted…
How nice for her.
Next to the acceptance letter, a yellowed newspaper clipping with a picture of a black guy flanked by a woman and a man. He skimmed the caption. William Shawkins, freed after ten years in prison… his attorney, Joseph Wahl… his accuser, Samantha Fairchild.
His accuser?
A few hairs on his neck rose and a smile broke across his face. So she was no rookie in the witness business. That painted everything in a very different color now, didn’t it? He took a long, hard look at Shawkins, who hugged Samantha, beaming at her. That required a little more research.
He left the office, stepped into the hall, and was headed toward the bedroom when the front door at the bottom of the stairs opened and the dog started barking, loud.
Not a chance that Yorkie could smell him up here, so someone must have arrived. He heard voices, one female and too young to belong to the lady downstairs.
He touched the gun in his pocket, silenced and ready. Christ, he hated to do a job like this. No matter how careful he was, he’d leave evidence. A hair, a footprint, something. There were so many better ways.
Still, opportunity might be knocking, and the faster he could be done, the sooner he could be paid.
He headed back out to the kitchen. He could wait on the balcony, maybe jump her when she was in the shower. Assuming she was alone. Of course, she could have a man with her.
Then… oh, hell. What was one more dead? Maybe he could make it look like a murder-suicide. He’d done that once, in that job in Phoenix. Worked real well.
The dog was quiet now, but that didn’t guarantee anything. He opened the back door and slipped out onto the little wooden deck, closing the door without making a sound.
Zach had reluctantly agreed to go to Sam’s apartment for some clothes and sundries, as long as she wore the Cleopatra wig and they were in and out in a minute, dragging out the process by passing her house once, then snaking through the streets, taking a backward route and ultimately parking across the street behind the house.
The wig gave her a headache, and so did his relative silence the whole trip. They’d only said what was necessary; no discussion of the family, no replay of the day’s events, nothing intimate or warm. Which was probably the real cause of her headache.
She took him through the opening in the fence and showed him the balcony where she’d jumped. He gave her a nod that said he was impressed, but, as with the entire ride from Sudbury to Vivi’s and during the whole process of his gathering some necessities before they came here, he barely said a word.
It was as if he didn’t trust himself to say anything. The kiss, his unwillingness to trade out the job to Marc, the whole day and evening just hung over them like a dark, ominous cloud.
More reason to hate the idea of being trapped in a safe house in Jamaica Plain for God knows how long, Sam thought as they came around the front. As she unlocked the front door that led to her stairs, the Brodys’ door popped open and Sam jumped back with a soft gasp.
Zach instantly moved to block Sam.
“Who are you?” Mrs. Brody demanded. Behind her, Nutmeg yapped so loud Sam practically had to yell.
“It’s me, Mrs. Brody.” Sam inched out and pulled off the wig.
The other woman’s eyes flew wide as they darted from Sam to Zach, finally settling on her, but not until she’d taken a few more uncertain looks at Zach. “What are you doing?”
“Costume party,” Sam said quickly. “And I’m going to be away for a few days, so can you get my mail?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t stop her gaze from moving to Zach, who nudged Sam up the stairs, pressing against her to force her up faster.
“Thanks, Mrs. B.,” she called over her shoulder. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”
“What’s he supposed to be? A monster?”
Every muscle in his body tensed against her as he hesitated imperceptibly in his step. Sam just reached down and grabbed his hand, pulling him. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Wait, Sam, I have your mail.” Mrs. Brody reached inside and produced a fat bunch of envelopes, magazines, and catalogs. Sam hadn’t gone out for mail for days, and her bills and the Victoria’s Secret catalog were the last thing on her mind.
She gathered the handful of mail and stuffed it under her arm, heading upstairs.
At the top of the steps, she unlocked the door, the keys shaking just a tiny bit in her hand. “If I open the door very, very slowly, the plant won’t tip over. If it already is, then…” Then someone had been in her apartment. But that’s not why she was shaking.
Mrs. Brody’s words echoed in the empty stairwell. A monster.
“I’ll go in first,” he said, inching her aside.
He didn’t have a gun, but his body was taut enough with
unreleased tension that if anyone was hiding inside, Sam had a feeling Zach would kill him with his bare hands.
He opened the door very slowly, dragging the plant across the wood floor, not spilling any dirt. So at least no one had come in this way. Still, Sam waited by the door as he went in and looked around.
“There’s no one here,” Zach said when he returned. “Come in and get what you need fast.”
She slipped by him, scanning the living room and dining area, pausing to drop the mail on the kitchen counter, breathing out a soft sigh at the sight of her modest apartment. Home was comforting again, even though it had been so scary for a week. Now she had Zach, and felt secure.
But she wanted to move fast, regardless of how nice it was to be home. She headed to her bedroom, mentally listing what she’d need, opening the closet to grab an overnight bag and start packing.
In less than ten minutes, she had clothes, basic cosmetics, shoes, and her laptop packed up and ready to go. Zach hadn’t even walked into the room to check on her. Slipping the bag over her shoulder, she took a quick look around her room, longing for a safety net that had somehow been yanked from her.
He was gone when she walked back in the living room. “Zach?” Her heart dipped as she spun around and saw the kitchen door wide open. “Are you out there?”
He didn’t answer and she tensed, listening. She startled when his head popped around from outside; he was on the balcony. “This door was unlocked.”
“No, it wasn’t. I’m sure of that, Zach. I turned the…” Had she? Good God, would she ever trust her memory for details again? Just like a witness to swear under oath she’d locked the door when she left. Of course she had. She’d left a plant by the front, so she wouldn’t have slipped out and jumped the balcony without locking the door.
Would she have?
“I was pretty upset and scared,” she admitted. “Maybe I forgot to lock it.”
“Or maybe someone picked their way in.”
Another dip of her heart. She looked around, everything exactly as she’d left it. Wouldn’t she sense if someone had been there?
“Let’s go,” he said, pulling the door closed and locking it carefully. He brushed by her, moving toward the living room. “You want your mail?”
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