by Karen Rose
Westmoreland had already been here. And had chosen not to inform him. There was no rage. No more feelings of betrayal. In that moment, Robinette mentally discharged one more member of his ‘inner circle’. Westmoreland, Henderson, Fletcher . . . They were of no more importance to him now than a stranger on the street.
That was the way Todd Robinette rolled. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice . . . not gonna happen. Anyone he trusted got one opportunity to screw him. If they tried, he cut them out of his life, quickly and irrevocably, as if they’d never been. And then he dealt with the betrayal.
No one was spared. Not his friends. Not even his wife, as Julie had learned the hard way. His second wife’s accusations and betrayals had made it easy to kill her eight years ago.
But Julie’s first husband, Rene . . . he’d been the worst. This mess Robinette now found himself in? It all started with Rene. The man had once been his oldest friend. He’d allowed Rene to raise Levi while he’d been at war. Rene had given him a job when he’d come home.
But it had been a shit job. Everyone starts at the bottom, Todd. You gotta learn the business from the bottom up, Todd. Rene had started him in the goddamn warehouse reporting to high school dropouts. And when Robinette had found a way to make it work for him? Rene had accused him of stealing company property. Had threatened to report him to the cops.
That was it. Friendship over. Robinette had killed Rene without planning to do so. When Julie had figured it all out and accused him, threatened to turn him in . . .
Killing her had been even easier. Nobody threatens Todd Robinette and gets away with it.
Stevie Mazzetti was about to find that out. Yesterday he’d wished he could personally deal with the bitch cop who’d killed his son. Looks like I’ll get my wish. Once I find her.
And he would. There had to be something in Maynard’s house to point to where the PI had taken her, or at least to point to someone else Maynard loved. Someone who might be used as leverage to make Maynard talk.
Robinette squatted, picking up photos from the floor, taking care to only handle the edges. He didn’t trust forensic scientists. They could lift fingerprints from fruit now. A print made through his gloves would be child’s play.
He shuffled through the photos until one caught his eye. Maynard with an older man, standing on the deck of a boat. It looked recent. Robinette lifted his eyes, saw that the model boat Maynard had displayed on his bookshelf had been smashed to smithereens. From what was left of the wreckage, he could see the model boat looked much like the boat in the photo.
Robinette had stowed the photos in his backpack when he saw another frame amidst the trash. This one made him frown. They were military medals for valor and courage – a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. They’d been awarded to Maynard. They didn’t belong on the floor.
Robinette might not serve the Stars and Stripes any longer, but he still had respect for those who had, especially anyone who’d been injured in whatever god awful place he’d served. What had Westmoreland been thinking?
Robinette shook the broken glass from the frame and leaned it against the dresser, then made his way back to the kitchen and checked the trashcan. It was filled with flour and sugar, salt and loose tea. Westmoreland had dumped all the canisters into the garbage rather than dumping all the powdery items on the floor and risking leaving a footprint. I taught him well.
Robinette had found nothing definitive upstairs to indicate where Maynard had hidden Mazzetti, but there was still a basement to check. Wait. He froze, lifting his head to listen. The slam of a car door. Low voices. Someone was coming.
He headed to the living room, stepping to the side of the sliding glass door so that he was hidden by the gathered curtain. And just in time. The door slid open and in walked a cop. I must have triggered a silent alarm. Good thing he’d hidden his face. It appeared that Clay Maynard had halfway decent security after all.
Robinette made sure his holster was unencumbered. He wouldn’t use the gun unless he had to, but if he did have to, he wanted fast access.
He waited for the cop to walk past the door, reached out, grabbed the cop’s head and . . . Twist. Robinette gave a good jerk, the sound of the cop’s neck breaking filling him with intense satisfaction. He dropped the cop to the floor with a thud and listened.
The laundry room door creaked open slowly. The partners had separated, each taking a different door. Robinette crossed the room as the partner entered, grabbed his head and . . .
Twist. Another one bit the dust. It was his specialty, honed over years in the desert. Henderson had been their marksman. Westmoreland’s weapon of choice had always been a dagger. Fletcher, poison. Robinette’s most lethal weapons were his own bare hands. But, like Westmoreland, he liked knives, too. Guns were the weapon of last resort.
He slit their throats to make sure they were dead. Taking their radios, he grabbed his backpack, pulled the sliding door closed, then exited through the garage, the same way he’d come in. Anyone who saw him now would see only a workman. He pushed the ski mask up under the cap, keeping his head down. Then he got in his Tahoe and drove away.
His former team might believe he’d gotten soft. Robinette suspected the two dead cops in Maynard’s living room would disagree.
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 12.25 P.M.
Clay wrapped a towel around his hips as he’d left his clothes in the cabin with Stevie. Bracing himself for another confrontation, he stepped out of the boat’s small head into the cabin.
It was unoccupied.
The bed had been made, military-grade creases in the spread. The files on which they’d worked had been packed into the rolling suitcase, which sat at the base of the stairs. His clothes were neatly draped over a chair, right down to his socks. His shoes had been precisely aligned. On the table where they’d worked was his cell phone, also precisely aligned.
Stevie, her laptop, and her cane were gone. With the exception of the large suitcase, no one would have known she’d ever been there.
Clay sniffed his fingers, relieved when the dominant scent was that of the soap. But she was still there, underneath the Old Spice. Get her out of your mind. Now.
He dressed quickly, then checked his phone. Snarled. Five missed calls, eight missed texts, most in the last five minutes. He couldn’t even take a damn cold shower without someone bothering him. Then he frowned. The calls were all from Paige as were half the texts – and his business partner was not the hysterical type.
As soon as he looked at the other texts, he knew exactly what had happened. On any other day he would have been stunned. Shocked into immobility. But this wasn’t any other day.
Someone had broken into his house, the alarm system sending the texts to his phone.
‘Shit.’ He grabbed the suitcase and muscled it up the stairs. Once on the dock, he broke into a run, dragging it behind him as he speed-dialed Paige.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
‘Busy,’ he bit out. ‘I need details and I need them now.’
Sunday, March 16, 12.30 P.M.
Stevie went into the house and directly up the stairs, hoping Emma would take the hint and leave her and her damn hickey alone. No such luck.
‘What leads did you find?’ Emma asked, sticking behind her all the way up the stairs.
‘The leak’s IA.’ Stevie tried to close the bedroom door but Emma pushed her way in.
‘Slow down a second,’ Emma said, sitting on the bed. ‘Let’s talk details.’
Stevie slanted her a warning look as she searched for a turtle-neck, throwing clothes from her bag every which way. ‘Must we?’
‘Yes, we must. You said you found the leak,’ she said. ‘Who?’
Stevie told her about Scott Culp. ‘Which explains a lot about the lack of urgency in IA’s investigations over the last year. Dammit. No turtlenecks.’ Too bad she hadn’t packed for sex. Which she technically had not had. At least there’s that. ‘Do you have anything in your sui
tcase that won’t cost me a month’s salary to replace?’
‘No, but you can borrow it anyway.’ Emma took the scarf off Stevie’s neck and shook her head. ‘How could you not know Clay did that to you?’
‘I was busy.’ Orgasming. ‘Just . . . fix it, okay? And stop grinning at me.’
‘Sorry. I’m glad you had fun.’ But when Stevie didn’t reply, Emma stopped rummaging through her bag and turned with a frown. ‘You didn’t have fun. Did he . . . Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. He just . . .’ Stevie sighed. ‘He’s got issues. Can you let me leave it at that?’
‘For now,’ Emma said softly. ‘As long as you don’t shut me out forever.’
‘I don’t shut people out.’
Emma laughed bitterly. ‘Oh right. And I’m a basketball star.’ She tossed a sweater on the bed. ‘Take off your shirt.’
Stevie scowled. ‘I can dress myself, Mom.’
‘You’re bleeding, Stevie. Let me fix you. I don’t want you bleeding all over my sweater,’ she added lightly, but Stevie heard the underlying concern.
Silently, Stevie pulled the shirt over her head, not letting herself think about doing so in front of Clay. She was so not thinking about it. Hell. Now that’s all she could think about.
Emma made a distressed noise. ‘You pulled out two stitches. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Emma,’ she murmured wearily. ‘Please.’
Emma muttered something about Stevie not having the sense to come in out of the rain. ‘Stay here. I have to get the peroxide.’ She was back in less than a minute and proceeded to change Stevie’s bandage with capable hands, all humor gone.
‘You’re sure you’re not a medical doctor?’ Stevie asked, trying to lighten the mood.
‘I’ve got two boys that love to wrestle. I know all about bandages.’ She grabbed the Kevlar vest that Hyatt had given Stevie the night before and guided Stevie’s injured arm into one sleeve, waiting while Stevie shoved her good arm in the other, then fastening the vest’s Velcro ties.
‘What if I bleed on your sweater?’
‘Goddamn you, Stevie,’ Emma said, her teeth clenched. ‘You’re an idiot.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re going out there where people are trying to kill you while you’re not thinking clearly. You’re upset by Clay, which has left you off-balance. You’ve already accepted that you’ll bleed again. Damn you. You are not bullet-proof and I don’t want to bury you.’
Emma was crying and Stevie blew out a breath, stared at the cashmere sweater in her hands, then frowned, her focus shifting. ‘You didn’t have that suitcase last night.’
Emma blinked at her through her tears, her expression incredulous. ‘You ignored everything I just said.’
Yes, she had. Because something wasn’t right. ‘Where did the suitcase come from, Emma?’
Emma shook her head. ‘If you’re so desperate not to face your own mortality, fine. We’ll talk about stupid suitcases. Joseph’s agents brought it this morning when they changed shifts. Paige sent it with them. She stayed in my hotel room last night and repacked my things.’
Stevie’s brain started to click. ‘Hold on. Paige was in your room last night before you met me on the road. She discovered the mess in your hotel room, not you. Where were you?’
Emma’s eyes snapped with fury. ‘Clay and I went straight from your house to the gun range. Clay wanted me to prove I could handle a firearm so that I could guard your child. Which I did prove, thank you very much. Paige dropped us off there, then dropped Alec at their office, then went to my hotel to pack my things. She found my room had been broken into.’
‘When? When did you do all of this?’
‘While JD was driving you around, ensuring you lost any tails and giving all of your friends time to get together in one place.’
Stevie heard the rage in Emma’s voice and ignored it. ‘You planned to come with me all along, even though I told you to go the hell home. And Clay knew. He manipulated me. Again.’
‘Uh-huh, he did.’ Emma’s chin came up, her eyes narrowed. ‘He’s also responsible for the adoration of Justin Bieber. He’s a freaking mind control expert.’
Stevie clenched her cane, pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’m serious.’
‘You’re also wrong.’ Emma got in her face until they were nose to nose. ‘Nobody manipulates you into doing anything. You do exactly what you want to do. Did we obey your orders? No. Did we try to support you? Help you? Guilty as charged, so beat me senseless. But we did not manipulate you. Anything you’ve done for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve wanted to do, and if anyone tries to help you, you push them away.’
Stevie was trembling again, which made her even angrier. She pulled the cashmere sweater over the Kevlar vest, adjusting the collar so that it covered the hickey. ‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ she said rigidly. ‘I’ll be back later this evening and we can discuss it then.’
Not waiting for a reply, she shouldered her backpack and made it down the stairs where she found the Escalade’s keys on the kitchen counter where Clay had left them the night before.
‘Cordelia?’ she called. ‘Where are you?’
Cordelia ran in from the laundry room, her smile big. ‘Right here, Mom. Playing with the puppies.’ Her smile abruptly disappeared. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To meet with Uncle JD. It’s not dangerous and I’ll be back before you know it.’ She pulled Cordelia close. ‘I have to make things safe for us again. So we can go home.’
Cordelia launched herself at Stevie, holding on hard. ‘Mama, I don’t want to go home.’
Stevie closed her eyes. She didn’t have time for this. But how could she not have time for this? ‘I know you like it here, and I know you like Mr Maynard, but we can’t stay here forever.’
‘I know. But I don’t want to go home. Can we get a new home?’
‘A different house?’ Stevie asked, surprised.
‘Yes. Can we?’
I hate that kitchen. In her mind Stevie could hear Cordelia’s whispered confession to Clay the night before and his murmured response. I’d hate that kitchen, too, if I were you.
Stevie felt the panic grip her chest. She and Paul had chosen that house together, scrimping and saving for the down payment. They’d worked hard to renovate, repair. He was all over that house. She couldn’t lose it. It would be like losing him, all over again.
But her baby was shaking. ‘Yes, we can. We can get a different house.’
Cordelia drew back, stunned disbelief in her eyes. She’d thought I’d say no. That I’d choose the house over her. ‘Really?’
‘Really. You are more important than any old house. It has a lot of memories, good and bad. We’ll find a new house and make new memories. You and me. When I get back from the city, we’ll go online and look at houses, okay?’
Cordelia beamed. ‘Can Aunt Izzy come, too?’
‘Of course.’
Cordelia’s brows lifted. ‘Can we get a dog?’
Stevie laughed, stunned that she still could. ‘Now you’re pushin’ it. Give me a kiss.’
Cordelia smacked a loud one on her cheek. ‘That should hold me for a while. Get Mr Tanner to lock the door behind me. Tell him I had to go into the city, but I’ll be back soon. I love you.’
‘Love you, too, Mama.’
‘Stevie.’ Tanner thundered down the stairs. ‘Wait. Do not leave this house.’
Stevie glared at the ceiling. Emma, you damn tattletale. ‘Can’t wait,’ she called. ‘Gotta go.’
Hurrying into the garage, Stevie climbed into the Escalade, adjusted the seat, fully aware she’d been holding her breath. Get it over with. When she inhaled, she smelled Clay, like she’d known she would. The scent of his aftershave had lingered.
I can smell you. She clenched her thighs when the warmth between them began to throb. She could see his face, intent in its passion, then . . . Nothing. His expression had gone blank. Like he’d been zapped with the
freeze-frame button on a remote. Why are you here?
Why had she been? Had she been manipulated? Or had she been in complete control of her actions the entire time? ‘I don’t push people away,’ she said to the quiet interior of the SUV.
But she sounded unconvinced, even to herself. With a tired sigh, she pushed the button to activate the garage door. Time to go to work. So why did it seem like she was running away?
When the door had fully opened, she started the engine and began to pull out of the garage. Only to have the door come back down. Bracing for an argument with Clay’s father, she turned in her seat . . . and froze.
Not the father, but the son. Clay opened the passenger door, got in and slammed the door hard enough to shake the SUV. His expression was furious, his face as hard as stone. He hit the garage door control button and stared straight ahead as the door went up again.
‘Drive, Detective. As fast as you can.’
Chapter Fourteen
Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 12.30 P.M.
Sam Hudson stared at his cell phone as it vibrated its way across the dining room table in his apartment. After dropping the gun off at Ballistics, he’d gone to check on his mother. Then he’d come home, knowing if he stayed at his mother’s house long enough, she’d sense his disquiet and nag him until he told her what was bothering him.
He couldn’t say the words out loud to anyone, least of all to his mother. I may have killed your worthless junkie husband, Mom.
No, he couldn’t be around his mother today.
Instead he’d sat in his apartment watching the phone that now buzzed with an incoming call. From within the police department. Probably from Ballistics.
Paralyzed, Sam watched his phone skitter across the table until the call went to voicemail. He picked the phone up, connected with his voicemail and listened, holding his breath.
‘Sam, it’s Dina. I got a hit on that gun. Call me or stop by. I’m here ’til four.’
Damn. Until now, he’d been able to compartmentalize the gun as being simply ‘recently fired’. Now, it was ‘used in the commission of a crime’.
