by Karen Rose
‘We call the Tahoe driver “Mr Backpack”,’ Stevie said. ‘The other we can call “Mr Sucker”, just to keep things rated G for Cordelia. There’s also “Drive-by” and “Restaurant”.’
‘Fine,’ Grayson said with a smile, then sobered. ‘We’re assuming that Culp gave Backpack the safe house location when he called him. We don’t know if Backpack got to the safe house, saw what Rossi had done and ran, or didn’t go at all. But he knew where to find you last night.’
Stevie’s chest went tight. ‘So if Rossi hadn’t, someone else would have tried to kill Cordelia and me there.’
‘It’s likely,’ Grayson said grimly. ‘Joseph also had just received the video surveillance from the CVS you two stopped at. The Tahoe was there, in the parking lot. The driver kept his head down so the surveillance cameras couldn’t pick up his features.’
‘Shit,’ she breathed. ‘So close.’
‘I’m getting tired of playing catch up to this guy.’ Clay’s voice was harsh. Rattled. ‘We need to bring him out in the open.’
‘I was thinking that, too,’ Stevie said. ‘I’ve got an idea you’re not going to like.’
‘If you’re the bait, you’re damn right I won’t like it,’ Clay said. ‘But we might not have a choice. Sooner or later your luck’s going to run out.’
Stevie grimaced. ‘I’ve already run out of Kevlar. Part one of my plan requires a very public declaration that Emma is going home to Florida. Maybe a news story.’
Emma and Christopher shared a look. ‘We don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Emma said.
‘Why not?’ Stevie asked.
‘Someone’s already tried to break into our house,’ Christopher said. ‘Today my office at the university was broken into. Emma doesn’t have family pictures on her website, but I have pictures on my desk. Whoever broke into my office now has photos of the boys and Megan.’
Stevie closed her eyes. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’
‘Hush, Stevie,’ Emma said mildly. ‘So far, the security we’ve hired to protect our parents and our kids haven’t reported any issues, but we’re going to lay low. Christopher is flying to Florida tomorrow on a private plane. Instead of going to our house, he’s going straight to Disney World. Our security people will pick him up and take him to the boys.’
‘What about you?’ Stevie asked.
‘I’m staying with Cordelia. And when the time comes, I’ll go with her to the farm.’
Stevie leaned back in her chair, blinking. ‘You are?’
Emma nodded. ‘I am. It allows me to lay low and not get shot at.’
‘Which makes me happy,’ Christopher said, his jaw tight.
Emma shrugged. ‘I’m no celebrity, but my face is on the back of enough books that I get recognized in public from time to time. They don’t know the boys are in Orlando, but all it takes is one person seeing me there with my kids to put the boys in danger.’
‘Emma, are you sure?’
‘Yes. I can watch over Cordelia and if we go to the farm, I can learn about equine therapy. I see potential for a new book. And there are, of course, the clothes. Equestrian is all the rage.’
‘Should have known clothes would factor in somehow,’ Stevie said with a smile. ‘Has the hotel where you were staying had any more trouble with people trying to get into your room?’
‘Paige checked with the hotel manager before we came here,’ Grayson said. ‘There have been some inquiries, mostly from reporters. Why?’
‘I’m thinking that maybe “Emma” should check back into the hotel tomorrow night. If anyone was watching for her last night, Paige wouldn’t have fooled them. She’s almost six feet tall and Emma’s only five feet in her stilettos.’
Emma looked at her shrewdly. ‘If you’re thinking of posing as me, don’t. You can’t walk like me. Even before the cane.’
‘I can learn,’ Stevie said stubbornly. ‘I did some undercover, back in the day.’
‘And your hair?’ Grayson asked.
‘A wig. Daphne’s got plenty. I’m sure she has a short blonde one. Look, maybe nobody comes and I just end up sleeping in a hotel bed for the night. But maybe someone will think Emma knows where I am and will break in again.’
‘They might open fire,’ Grayson cautioned, ‘like Rossi did at the safe house last night.’
Stevie winced. ‘Fine. I won’t sleep in the bed. But I want to draw whoever is looking for me into an enclosed environment. There’s too much space to control if I’m out and about. If I can get them to come to me, I’ll have the advantage.’
‘Why not just check in as yourself?’ Emma asked.
‘A, because it would stink of a trap,’ Stevie answered. ‘B, because they’d shoot me before I got to the front desk. You, they’d want to keep alive so that they could make you tell them where to find me.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Clay said quietly. ‘But I can’t think of anything better. We have to put a stop to whoever wants you dead. You and Cordelia can’t go on like this forever.’
You and Cordelia. Stevie winced again, this time in her own mind. Before their interlude on the boat, he’d said ‘we’, again and again. She missed the comfort of being part of a ‘we’.
‘Can you take care of security?’ Stevie asked him.
He nodded once. ‘Of course.’
‘Then we have a plan.’ Stevie looked around the table. ‘Thank you. All of you.’
‘You were never alone in this, Stevie,’ Grayson said.
‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I get that now.’
Chapter Eighteen
Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 7.00 P.M.
Robinette leaned back in his desk chair, staring the enlarged photo on his computer screen. He was close to finding Maynard’s hiding place. He could feel it.
Robinette had scanned in the photo he’d found in the debris on Maynard’s bedroom floor. The photo was of the PI with his arm around an older man’s shoulders, the two of them standing on the deck of a boat. Robinette now enlarged the image until the name of the boat was clear. Only three letters had been visible – F-I-J.
Fiji? Maybe. A Google of ‘search boats by name’ brought back the recreational vessel database. And what do you know? It was searchable by vessel name. F-I-J, he typed.
Then grinned. Less than a dozen boats had F-I-J in the name. Less than half of those were currently located on the East Coast. Robinette searched the vessels’ owners and his grin got wider. ‘Like taking candy from a baby,’ he murmured.
Captain Tanner St James owned the Fiji from which he chartered fishing trips. His website was extremely helpful, showing both a photo of the captain and the address of his business. St James was, without a doubt, the man in Maynard’s photo.
The address – Main Street, Wight’s Landing, Maryland – was a marina on the Chesapeake Bay. Google maps showed it to be an hour and ten minutes from Robinette’s current location.
Robinette did a final search, just to be certain. Tanner St James was married to Nancy St James, nee Maynard. The boat captain was the PI’s stepfather.
Priceless. This would be a place Maynard would feel safe. But it was premature to cackle. Maynard may not have hidden them on the boat itself. His father might have a house in Wight’s Landing. Another Google search yielded more than Robinette had hoped for.
Tanner St James had an unlisted number, but the property records served up his address in a few seconds flat. Robinette loved the property records database. Anyone who’d ever owned a home was in there. Maynard had been smart enough to hide his own house under layers of corporations, all linked to other corporations.
But Maynard’s stepfather hadn’t been so careful, so his home address was viewable by any and all, and some of the people who’d viewed it hadn’t been wound so tight. St James had pressed charges on a group of fruitcakes who’d tried to storm his home on an annual basis.
The old guy was no wuss. St James had chased them off with a semi-automatic rifle.
Robinette
Googled one of the people listed in St James’s complaint. The fruitcake had a Facebook page, of course, and turned out to be a devotee of a serial killer, kind of like those crazies who kept trying to smuggle cell phones into prison for Charles Manson. This serial killer, though, was a woman who’d committed some of her crimes in the house where St James now lived. Her photo thoroughly creeped Robinette out. That didn’t happen very often.
There had been a cluster of posts around the killer’s birthday, many of which criticized Tanner St James for denying them access to what ‘should be a national monument’, but most of the annual pilgrimages to St James’s property had apparently stopped five years before.
When St James had completely fortified his home. The man had added a ten-foot electrified fence, a steel gate, motion detectors, cameras. Bank vault doors and bullet-proof windows, even.
‘Bingo,’ Robinette crowed. ‘This is most definitely the place.’
The only problem was – how was he going to get in?
‘I’ll figure that out when I get there.’ He shot the Rubik’s cube on his desk a look of contempt. ‘Now who’s dumb?’ he murmured. His oldest pal would be eating his words at the moment, if Rene were still alive. Which he was not.
Robinette cleared his Internet browser and shut down his computer. He shoved the photos into the pocket of his coat and locked his office door behind him, ready to catch himself a cop.
‘Todd?’ A female sigh of exasperation had him tensing. ‘You forgot, didn’t you?’
Shit. Lisa. Robinette drew a breath as he pulled the key from the lock. Ensured none of the euphoria he felt over finding Mazzetti’s hiding place showed on his face. He turned to find Lisa wearing a conservative cocktail dress, diamonds dripping from her ears, and a frown on her face.
‘Forgot what?’ he asked, his confusion genuine. ‘Brenda Lee said I had the night off.’
Annoyance flickered in Lisa’s eyes. ‘Brenda Lee didn’t plan this. I did.’
Robinette bit his tongue and swallowed his scowl. Made himself smile instead. ‘Well, darlin’, you’ll have to give them my regrets. I’ve got someplace else to be.’
Lisa grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said quietly. ‘I have a living room full of wealthy men and women who want to donate to your rehab centers. I told you this several times. I emailed you to remind you an hour ago, but I knew you’d be here. You’re always here.’
‘They can write a check even if I’m not there,’ he said coolly.
She didn’t budge. ‘Two of them are interested in having you run for office, Todd.’
That got his attention. ‘Me? Run for office?’
‘Yes, you. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. They wanted to gauge your reaction, so look surprised when they ask you. Surprised and humble.’
‘Lisa. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say “Thank you, Lisa.” Then get your ass into a decent suit. This one is filthy. What have you been doing? Cleaning sewers?’ She dropped her hand, giving him a disgusted look.
His jaw tightened. That he’d once cleaned sewers was not well known. It had been a summer job when he’d been a dirt-poor teenager trying to save for college. Lisa’s daddy had turned up that little factoid when he’d done a background check on his son-in-law-to-be.
‘It was honest work,’ he murmured. Keeping the malice from his voice was difficult.
‘That’s what Congressman Rickman says. You met him last night at your awards dinner. He admires you.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Todd. But I told you about this dinner. It makes me crazy that you only listen to Brenda Lee. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to listen to me.’
‘You’re right.’ He hated to give the information about Maynard’s stepfather to Westmoreland, but he couldn’t afford to lose Mazzetti if she truly was hiding at Maynard’s stepfather’s house. At the same time, running for office . . . Me. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. That he deserved. And I didn’t even have to kill anyone to get it.
Plus, after getting shot at today, Mazzetti would probably be hiding out, trembling in her boots. She wasn’t going anywhere for a few hours. ‘I’ll go change now.’
‘Can you use the back stairs?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want everyone to know that you forgot.’
‘Of course.’ He kissed her cheek, noting the way she stiffened, pulling away from his touch. It’s just dirt, bitch. Not poison. He had the sudden mental image of his hands around her throat, twisting her neck like he’d done to the cops earlier that day. Back, boy. You can’t kill any more wives. ‘I’ll hurry as fast as I can.’
He took off at a jog, dialing Westmoreland as he ran, then frowned. No answer. Wes was supposed to be at a coffee shop trying to hack into Maynard’s office server. He’d try again later.
But a shower, a tux, and three calls to Westmoreland later, his man still hadn’t answered.
‘Put the phone away, Todd,’ Lisa murmured as she tied his bow tie. She’d been waiting impatiently outside his bathroom door when he emerged from his shower, making that mental image of his hands around her neck refresh with vivid clarity. She brushed non-existent lint from his lapels, then flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘It’s show time.’
Sunday, March 16, 8.15 P.M.
‘What is this place?’ Sam looked around the nightclub Ruby had all but dragged him into.
‘I told you,’ Ruby shouted over the music. ‘It’s called Sheidalin. It’s owned by some friends of mine.’
‘Hell. If there are drugs going through this place and it gets raided . . . Shit.’ Although he wasn’t sure why he was worried. A drug charge was nothing compared to murder.
‘We’re not going to get raided. Dios, you’re a fraidy-cat.’ But she smiled as she said it. ‘Thorne runs a clean house. Anyone caught with drugs gets kicked out and isn’t allowed back. Relax. Listen to the music and let your brain rest.’
The band was pretty good, he had to admit, and the clientele . . . diverse. Goths and hipsters, aging Deadheads, and a group of bikers. Men and women dressed like bankers and . . .
And other cops. ‘Hey. I know him.’ Sam pointed to a man sitting at a table alone, nursing a beer and looking like he’d lost his best friend. ‘Where do I know him from?’
‘That’s JD Fitzpatrick,’ Ruby said sadly. ‘He’s Homicide. You heard about the cop that ate his gun this afternoon? JD was there. Tried to stop him. He saw it up close and personal.’
Sam sighed. ‘This day has sucked all around, hasn’t it?’
Fitzpatrick’s posture abruptly changed. He sat up, leaned forward and stared at the stage where a leggy blonde wearing a miniskirt was getting ready to play the strangest-looking violin Sam had ever seen. The crowd had noticed her, too, and conversation stilled for a moment before the place erupted in applause.
And then she started to play. He’d thought it would be wild and rowdy like the number the band had played before, but instead it was sweet. Haunting.
Fitzpatrick had closed his eyes and was listening. Sam did the same, embarrassed when tears pricked at his eyelids. But the music quieted him. He felt less frenzied. Even peaceful.
Sam’s eyes flew open at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. A huge man in a snappy suit sat beside him, eyes focused on the violinist. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ the guy asked.
Sam looked left, but Ruby was gone. ‘Look, I’m here with a friend. I’d better go find her.’
‘Ruby will be back,’ the man said. ‘She went to the office to see the baby.’
‘What baby?’
‘Her baby.’ He pointed at the stage. ‘She had a little boy a few months ago. This is her first night back. That’s why everyone went so crazy when they realized it was her.’
The violinist finished her piece and blew a kiss into the crowd. The homicide detective blew one back. ‘Fitzpatrick’s . . . ?’ Sam let the question trail. Not his girlfriend, he hoped. Sam hated when men cheated. And he knew the guy’s wife. She was the ME who was on m
aternity leave.
‘She’s JD’s wife.’
‘No way. He married the ME. She told me so, the last time I was in the morgue.’
The man next to him said nothing and Sam squinted at the violinist, who’d launched into the next song, this one so full of energy that the dance floor was filled to capacity in a minute. Her hair color might be similar to the ME’s and both women were tall, but . . . ‘That is not Dr Trask.’
‘If you say so. Except that she is.’ The man extended his hand. ‘I’m Thomas Thorne. I own the place with Lucy and Gwyn, one of our friends. Gwyn’s in the office, watching Lucy’s baby.’
Sam had heard rumors that the ME had a wilder side, but he’d thought it was just that – rumors. But they were true. He studied Thorne. ‘I’ve heard of you. You’re a defense attorney.’
Thorne smiled. ‘Guilty as charged. Ruby seemed to think you might need my services.’
Sam closed his eyes, his stomach launching straight into his throat. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, that’s fine. I checked out your record before I came out here. You’ve got a good one. Ruby thinks you’re a nice guy. If you need to ask any legal questions, I’m happy to help.’
‘I couldn’t afford you. Your shoes cost more than my car.’
Thorne chuckled. ‘Ruby’s a pal, so for now you can retain me for a dollar. If we go to court, we’ll renegotiate. If you can’t afford me, I’ll find you good representation you can afford.’
‘A dollar.’ He’d heard Thomas Thorne was a fierce opponent in the courtroom, but Sam had never heard the guy was dirty. ‘Hell, what can I lose? Is there a quieter place we can talk?’
‘Yeah, come on.’
Sam followed Thorne through the crowd to a small dressing room that at first glance seemed normal enough with clothing hanging from hooks and a changing screen in the corner. But then he blinked. Bullwhips lined the walls, coiled and displayed like trophies. What the hell?
Thorne closed the door behind them and it was suddenly, blissfully quiet. Sam exhaled in relief. ‘No offense, but that music is not my style. I really liked Dr. Trask’s first song, though.’
