by Karen Rose
‘No, it wasn’t painful at all.’ Emma rose unsteadily, looking exhausted. ‘But if you don’t need me anymore, Mr Radcliffe, I’ll excuse myself. I haven’t slept well the past few nights.’
‘Understandable,’ Radcliffe said. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Thank you for providing the phone numbers for local grief counselors. You never know who’s watching. If one person at the end of their rope reaches out for help, it’s worth it.’
She went into the bedroom, opening the door only wide enough to squeeze through – as if hiding the room’s existing occupants.
Clay bit back a smile. Emma was very good. He turned to Radcliffe. ‘I’ll walk you down.’
Radcliffe glanced at Clay before returning his gaze to the bedroom door. ‘So you’re Dr Townsend’s bodyguard now?’ he asked casually.
Clay just looked at him, confirming or denying nothing.
Radcliffe half-shrugged. ‘I was under the impression that you were Mazzetti’s bodyguard. I understand you were with Mazzetti on Saturday when she was shot at in front of her house and again this morning when shots were fired at the house owned by your father.’
Clay opened the suite’s door. ‘I’ll walk you down,’ he repeated.
Radcliffe’s lips twitched as he shouldered a bag of equipment. ‘And of course, I can’t help but recall your presence on the courthouse stairs in December,’ he said as he walked through the door into the hall. ‘I was there, covering the trial. You saved her life then, too.’
‘Her surgeon gets the credit for that,’ Clay said, punching the down button for the elevator.
Radcliffe kept his eyes on Clay’s face. ‘I guess I’m surprised you’ve let Mazzetti out of your sight, under the circumstances. Or maybe you haven’t.’
It was exactly what they’d wanted him to assume, but that the man continued to push made Clay mad. He said nothing, allowing his annoyance to break through. Radcliffe’s eyes gleamed triumphantly as the elevator doors slid open.
The reporter was still smiling when Clay walked them out of the elevator into the parking garage. ‘Thank you, Mr Maynard. I really do appreciate the opportunity to interview Dr Townsend. Please give her and Detective Mazzetti my best when you go back upstairs.’
Clay kept his expression blank, but let anger drip into his tone. ‘I advised Dr Townsend not to speak with you,’ he lied. ‘But she wanted to be sure that people knew about the counseling resources open to them after the events of the weekend. That’s important to her.’ Which was a hundred percent true – and had enabled her to come off as so damn sincere. That part of her interview had been no act. ‘You do realize that your speculations as to Detective Mazzetti’s whereabouts could compromise the safety of both women? Their very lives?’
Another half-shrug. ‘But that’s your job, isn’t it? To guarantee their safety? Mine is to report the news, and like it or not, Townsend is news. Mazzetti is even bigger news. So you do your job, Mr Maynard, and I’ll do mine. Have a great day.’
Clay felt a twinge of guilt. They’d used Radcliffe and his cameraman to set a trap. It was conceivable that the two could get hurt.
‘Radcliffe, be careful. Someone wants to kill Detective Mazzetti. That they’d try to use you to get to her isn’t impossible. The police would give you protection if you’d accept it.’
Actually Clay wasn’t sure that last part was true. But he needed the men to understand the severity of the threat. He wanted them to be careful.
Radcliffe laughed. ‘You want us to allow the cops to tail us? I know you don’t like me, Maynard, but do I look stupid to you?’
‘Just be careful,’ Clay repeated. ‘Please.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Baltimore, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 5.25 P.M.
Robinette switched off his TV with a frown of disgust. That was no interview. That was the baiting of a trap. The cops wanted him to believe Stevie Mazzetti was hiding at the Peabody.
Did they think he was stupid? Stevie was unlikely to be there and the Peabody Hotel would be the last place he’d find Cordelia Mazzetti.
The child was the key. Get the child and the mother would follow. He knew the kid wasn’t at the Peabody or at that beach house, but he didn’t know where she was at the moment. He did, however, know where Cordelia had once been. Or rather Henderson had known.
Scott Culp, his IA mole, had told him that the shooter who’d attempted the drive-by in Stevie’s yard had followed Maynard when he’d been driving the kid home.
I should have let Henderson debrief before I gave Westmoreland the kill order. Henderson had gone under. Which was good in terms of not leading the cops to Robinette’s doorstep, but bad in that it also cut him off from everything that Henderson knew.
Robinette couldn’t even track the path Henderson had driven that day. Instead of taking a company car, Henderson had rented a white Camry to throw the cops off the trail because Mazzetti had been shot at the day before by a man in a white Camry. Which Robinette had considered very smart – then. Now, not so much.
But . . . Henderson had carried one of the disposable phones that Robinette made available to all his people.
‘And that I can track,’ he said aloud, pleased. Tracking the path that Henderson’s phone had taken on Saturday was even better than tracking the path of Henderson’s car. Cars could be changed, as Henderson had demonstrated, but people kept cell phones on their persons.
But that would have to wait until after his dinner with the city planner. He had, after all, given Brenda Lee his word that he wouldn’t be late.
He wasn’t worried. Mazzetti would be waiting for the trap at the Peabody to be sprung, from wherever she hid. Since he had no plans to be mouse to her cheese, she’d wait for a long time.
After all, he thought grimly, no one else seemed to be after her anymore. Since that cop, Tony Rossi, had fallen for the safe house trap, no one else had shot at her. Nobody but me.
If Robinette wanted Mazzetti gone – which he definitely did – he’d have to do it himself.
Monday, March 17, 5.35 P.M.
‘Maynard thought we’d let the cops “protect” us?’ the cameraman asked incredulously.
‘He’s desperate,’ Radcliffe said. ‘But he might be right. Be careful and we’ll be fine.’
Henderson frowned, listening to their conversation from the doctor’s truck a row of cars away from the elevator. Chances were they knew which suite was Mazzetti’s. They’d tell, one way or another.
‘Fine, I’ll be careful, but I gotta unwind. You want to go to Milo’s?’
Radcliffe shook his head. ‘Man, you know how I hate that place.’
‘But willing women love it. You’ve got a pretty face. I need all the help I can get.’
Radcliffe laughed. ‘I think I’ll pass.’
Henderson rolled up the doctor’s truck window, watching the reporter and his cameraman head toward their van. According to her interview, Emma Townsend would be staying at the Peabody through the end of the week and, reading between the lines of that snippet of conversation between Maynard and Radcliffe, Mazzetti was indeed here, in the hotel.
Getting to her would be difficult. Getting her out alive . . . even more so.
A room key was required to access any of the floors above the lobby. That wasn’t an issue for any of the floors below the penthouse level. Following a fellow guest into an elevator, then ‘searching’ one’s pockets for the room key usually prompted the other guest to produce theirs to start the elevator. But the penthouse required a special keycard.
The maids would have one. So would a room-service employee. Getting them to give up their keycard wouldn’t be too hard. A gun to the head was a reliable incentive to force their compliance. But I don’t have a gun.
Westmoreland claimed to have left one in his ‘care package’ which was handy. Getting Mazzetti out alive would require killing anyone with her. Rendering them unconscious was too risky. Unconscious people had a tendency to come to at inconven
ient times.
Henderson started the truck’s engine, hoping Westmoreland’s ‘care package’ was everything he’d said it would be.
Monday, March 17, 5.50 P.M.
Clay let himself back into Emma’s hotel room and started to laugh. Emma had been transformed into a ten-year-old boy who glared at him from beneath the brim of a cap bearing the logo of the Washington Capitals hockey team. She wore a jersey over a pair of loose-fitting jeans and the hair peeking out from under the cap was a dirty brown.
‘Paige has a mean sense of humor,’ she muttered. ‘I hope my kids don’t hear about this. We’re Tampa Bay Lightning Fans.’
‘How did you get your hair brown?’ Clay asked.
Christopher held up a spray can of temporary dye. ‘Paige’s getaway disguise.’
‘Paige’s good, you gotta admit,’ Clay said. ‘I’d take you for a kid at a glance. If anyone got a close look they might guess, but the luggage cart will keep people from getting in the elevator with us.’ They’d loaded up a cart with empty suitcases. ‘I’ll take you downstairs.’
‘No, you stay with Stevie,’ Grayson said from the adjoining doorway, now open. ‘I’ll take them. We’ve got all of the suites on this floor booked, so no one will bother us on the way to the elevator. Joseph is waiting in the parking garage to take Emma and me to the farm. One of his agents will drive Christopher to meet his plane, then Joseph will come back to this room tonight. He’s placed agents in the third and fourth suites, so you’ll have backup. You ready, Em?’
‘Yes,’ Emma grumbled. ‘I look stupid. But it is an admittedly effective disguise.’
‘Smile,’ Christopher said, then took a photo with his phone. ‘Blackmail for future favors.’
‘You’ll pay for that.’ She gave Stevie a hard hug. ‘I’ll look after Cordelia. You stay alive.’
‘It’s a deal.’ Stevie remained in the doorway as Grayson, Emma, and Christopher left, then it was just the two of them. Alone in a hotel room.
And she was watching him in that disconcertingly level way.
Clay cleared his throat, breaking the silence. ‘So far, so good.’
‘I agree.’ Stepping into the adjoining room, she turned off the TV before sitting at the desk where she’d set up her laptop next to the M-16 he’d given her. ‘Emma was amazing, as usual.’
He followed her, closing the door behind them and ensuring the door to the hallway was deadbolted. Which it was, because Stevie was a careful woman.
She set her cane against the desk and touched her laptop track pad, bringing up a page full of houses. He crossed the room to look over her shoulder. ‘What’s this?’
‘I’m house-hunting,’ she said quietly, not looking at him. ‘I didn’t understand how living in our house was affecting Cordelia. Now I do. So we’re going to move.’
‘To where?’
‘Don’t know yet. But, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like you to evaluate whichever house we choose for security. I never want my daughter to feel afraid again.’
My house is secure. The words popped into his mind before he could block them. You could live there. With me. Both of you. We could be a family. And I’m pathetic.
Except that she’d bandaged his hands early that morning, kissed his skinned knuckles. Pressed his hand against her cheek. And she’d watched him. For an excruciating hour in the SUV between Wight’s Landing and Baltimore, she’d watched him.
‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘What kind of house are you looking at?’
‘Single-story houses with big back yards. That way I don’t have to fight with the stairs and Cordelia can run and play like a kid should. I’ll need a fence around the property. A tall one. Otherwise I won’t feel safe letting Cordelia play. I won’t be able to get to her fast enough, like I couldn’t this morning when she was in danger. Even if Grayson hadn’t stopped me, I couldn’t have run fast enough.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘And that scares the hell out of me, Clay,’ she admitted quietly. ‘What if I’m never able to run again?’
A mad Stevie he could handle, but a vulnerable Stevie . . . He sighed, feeling himself getting sucked back in and hating himself for it. ‘I know the fear. I was shot when I was in the Marines. Took me a long time to come back.’
‘Your Purple Heart?’
‘Yes. The bullet hit me right above the knee.’
She turned in the chair to look up at him, her gaze curious. ‘You never answered Hyatt yesterday. How did you kill the seven other enemy soldiers that day to save your platoon?’
‘Half my platoon,’ he corrected. Then shrugged. ‘I broke the first guy’s neck, stole his knife, gutted the second guy and took back the rifle he’d stolen from me. Then the rest of the enemy went down like dominoes. Any of the others would have done the same.’
‘Perhaps. But you did it.’ Curiosity became approval and Clay straightened abruptly, needing to take a deep breath before he did something really stupid, like rush her again.
She closed her laptop. ‘How did you do come back from being shot?’
‘A lot of physical therapy. You’ve been going, haven’t you?’
‘Mostly. I’ve been busy dodging bullets lately. Before that I was diligent, even though it hurt like hell. I wanted to get back to work. Now I just want to be able to protect Cordy.’
‘What did your doctor and therapist say?’
‘That I should regain most of my strength and range of motion. I haven’t, though.’
‘It takes months, Stevie. How long since you did your exercises?’
‘Almost two weeks. I know what to do, but like I said, I’ve been a little busy.’
‘Two weeks? Your muscles are probably tight as a drum.’
‘They are.’
He saw the pain behind her eyes now that he was looking for it. A vulnerable Stevie weakened him. Stevie in pain . . . He sighed again. ‘Do you have a pair of shorts with you?’
She gave him a wary look. ‘Yes.’
‘Put them on. I’ll help you with your stretches.’ He pointed to her suitcase. ‘Go change. We have hours to kill. Might as well do something productive.’
Monday, March 17, 6.40 P.M.
Sam straightened in the driver’s seat when Ruby emerged from the Rabbit Hole. Several men on their way into the bar stopped in their tracks, their eyes bulging and tongues rolling out like carpets as she walked by. He wanted to gouge their eyes out and cut those slobbering tongues out of their heads, but he sat, outwardly calm as Ruby opened his passenger door and slid in.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You look mad.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s fine. What did you find out?’
She arched a brow. ‘If you want to know, you have to tell me what “nothing” is.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Just that . . . those men. Watching you like you’re steak on a plate.’
‘You’re right.’ She twisted to buckle her seat belt, her breasts threatening to escape. ‘They are nothing.’
‘You could have worn a turtleneck,’ he grumbled.
She chuckled. ‘But then I wouldn’t have found out about Kayla.’
He turned to face her, realized her mascara had run, smearing her eyes. ‘Were you crying?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He started to get out of the car. ‘Who touched you? Give me a description. They won’t be able to touch anyone for a long time with casts on their hands.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Whoa, there. I cried on purpose. It was part of the act.’
Grudgingly he relaxed, embarrassed by his caveman outburst. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s kind of cute.’ She smiled at him. ‘And so are you.’
His cheeks heated. He felt twelve years old. ‘Fine. So, who is Kayla?’
‘If we’re lucky, she was the one who was working here that night eight years ago. I went in, told them I wanted to apply for a job.’
‘They believed you?’
‘No. But they weren’t supposed to.’ She grinned, delig
hted. ‘They accused me of being a cop. Can you believe it?’
‘No,’ he said flatly and her grin widened.
‘Me either! That’s when I turned on the waterworks. I told them I was really trying to find my sister, that she’d disappeared ten years ago. Our mother was dying, and I needed to find her.’ She fluttered her hand to her forehead, laying it on thick. ‘So that Mama could say goodbye.’
Sam found himself grinning as well. ‘And? What did they say?’
‘That no woman matching her description worked there, and how could we be sisters if the woman I was searching for was blonde and blue-eyed? I told them we’d all been adopted, that we’d all come from abusive homes.’ She sobered abruptly. ‘That convinced them. I guess not many of the women they hire to strip come from Beaver Cleaver homes.’
He sobered as well. ‘I guess not. So how did you find Kayla?’
‘I asked if they kept employment records back eight years. They did and they were all on the computer. They let me check until I found a woman that matched the description of the waitress who’d taken your drink order that night and who’d worked in the club eight years ago.’
‘They just let you use their computer?’
‘No, not exactly. I showed them a picture of Mother.’ She pulled the photo from her cleavage, handed it to Sam.
It was warm from her skin and Sam thought if he’d been behind the desk in the club, he’d have given her anything she wanted. He forced himself to focus on the photo. The woman was Caucasian, somewhere in her sixties. Thin and sickly. ‘Who is she?’ he asked curiously.
‘My mother,’ Ruby said quietly. ‘She died last year.’
Sam’s gaze flew to hers. Oh no. Not Ruby. ‘She adopted you,’ he murmured.
We’d all come from abusive homes. His imagination conjured a dizzying array of scenarios, but he had the feeling that Ruby’s truth was worse than anything he imagined.
‘She did. So I guess I wasn’t acting so much as projecting. Kayla could have been one of my sisters. More of us went right than went wrong, but the ones who fell into the life broke my mother’s heart.’ She took the photo from his numb fingers. ‘It’s all right, papi. I turned out just fine. My mama went to her grave proud of me.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And that’s huge.’
