Watch Your Back

by Karen Rose

  When the dust settled and he knew who had motivated his father’s actions that day and why, he’d approach the woman and her son to find out how he could make restitution.

  He had no idea what he’d say to her. Or to Stevie Mazzetti.

  It looked like whatever he’d say, it wouldn’t be today. He put on a jacket and grabbed his keys before locking his apartment door behind him. He was meeting Ruby and Kayla and his sketch artist friend at the precinct at four. And then he’d see the face of the man who’d dragged him from the Rabbit Hole that night.

  The man who was responsible for him waking up a day and a half later. Who’d probably killed his father. And who had somehow forced his father to kill three innocent people.

  He walked out of his apartment building and – froze when a hand clamped on his shoulder.

  ‘We need to talk, Officer Hudson.’

  Shit. All these questions they’d been asking . . . He’d worried about the dust they were kicking up. Fine. Bring it on. Just stay away from Ruby and Kayla.

  Twisting his body into a spin, Sam jabbed his elbow into the man’s gut, satisfied at the surprised grunt. Sam followed with a right cross, but the guy was ready, blocking him and sending him staggering back with a punch to the jaw that momentarily had him seeing stars.

  Enough of this. Sam ran up the steps, spun, and landed a kick solidly to the guy’s chest that had him staggering back. Sam drew his gun, unsurprised to see the man had done the same.

  ‘Drop your weapon,’ Sam said levelly.

  The man smiled and it wasn’t friendly. ‘You first.’

  Sam found his phone, blindly dialed 911, pausing before he hit send. ‘You can tell me what this is about, or I can call for backup. Either way, you’re not walking away without some kind of damage because I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

  Malice glittered in the man’s dark eyes. He was maybe an inch taller than Sam, broad as a doorway, and held himself like a fighter. Or a soldier. He needed a shave but his dark hair was precisely combed, despite their scuffling. He also had a chest like a steel wall and a fist like a wrecking ball. Sam’s elbow was just getting feeling back in it and his foot was still numb. He had to fight the urge to check for missing teeth.

  ‘Well?’ Sam prodded. ‘Who sent you?’ He threw off some malice of his own as he came down the stairs, closing the gap between them. ‘And I swear to God, if you’ve touched either of the women, I’ll aim for something you’re really gonna miss.’

  Confusion furrowed the man’s forehead, but his gun didn’t waver. ‘What women? I’m not after any women. I want to know why you were following Stevie Mazzetti this afternoon.’

  Sam realized where he’d seen the guy. ‘You were with her at the police station today.’

  The malice returned. ‘I’m with her just about everywhere she goes. Why the tail, Hudson?’

  He’s Mazzetti’s bodyguard. Sam remembered the black SUV’s quick exit off the highway. The driver had made his plates. Sam lifted his free hand, palm up. ‘I’m standing down. Please do the same.’ He lowered his gun until it was parallel with his leg.

  The man did the same, but produced his own phone. ‘You haven’t called the cops yet. I’ll give you five seconds to tell me why you were following Stevie Mazzetti and then I’ll call.’

  ‘Go ahead. Have them contact Detective Fitzpatrick.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed abruptly. ‘Have to admit I wasn’t expecting that.’

  Before Sam could respond, another voice came from the shadows, dryly smug. ‘I could have told you that.’

  Both Sam and the man twisted to look, then Sam’s eyes widened. It was like a scene from a comic book. From the shadows came a tall guy with white hair, wraparound shades, wearing a black trenchcoat that flapped in the wind.

  The first guy’s eyes rolled. ‘Novak.’

  Novak grinned. ‘Maynard.’

  So Maynard was the guy with the iron fist. Sam frowned, trying to place where he’d heard the name, then remembered – Maynard’s home had been the one broken into on Sunday, the place where the bodies of the two cops had been found, their necks broken.

  ‘Took you long enough to get here,’ Maynard grumbled.

  Novak shrugged. ‘I’ve been here for over an hour. You walked right by me.’

  Maynard frowned. ‘Where?’

  ‘Hiding behind the dumpster. The trenchcoat is more than a fashion statement, you know. I blend into the dark.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Who are you?’

  Novak approached, one hand holding his badge, the other holding his coat back enough to show he’d kept his weapon holstered. ‘Special Agent Deacon Novak, FBI and VCET. This is Clay Maynard, a private investigator working for Detective Mazzetti.’ He turned to Maynard. ‘Officer Hudson here filed a complaint this morning – for an assault on his person that occurred eight years ago. On March 14. He was drugged in a bar and woke up a day and half later in a strange hotel room with no recollection of the time he’d lost.’

  Maynard frowned at Novak. ‘He lost March 15? What the hell?’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Novak said. ‘And so did JD Fitzpatrick when he took Officer Hudson’s statement. JD said they specifically requested him.’

  ‘They?’ Maynard asked.

  ‘My attorney, Thomas Thorne,’ Sam said, ‘and my . . . friend, Ruby Gomez from the ME’s office, went with me when I filed the complaint.’

  ‘He was also accompanied by a witness to the assault,’ Novak said. ‘A Kayla Richards.’

  ‘Ruby and Kayla are the women you didn’t want me to touch, I suppose,’ Maynard said and Sam nodded. Maynard rubbed his neck. ‘The three of us should go somewhere quiet to talk.’

  Sam looked from one man to the other. ‘Okay.’

  Tuesday, March 18, 3.30 P.M.

  Clay flexed his fingers as he sat on the sofa in Hudson’s living room. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with two ice bags. He tossed one to Clay before slapping the other on his own jaw.

  Clay put the ice bag on his hand, wincing. ‘You got a jaw like a rock, Hudson.’

  Hudson’s smile was not amused. ‘My mother always said I was hard-headed. Agent Novak, would you mind taking off your glasses? I like to be able to see a man’s eyes.’

  With a shrug, Novak complied. Hudson’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Novak’s odd irises, then he, too, shrugged. ‘This day just gets stranger,’ he murmured. ‘Mr Maynard, to answer your original question, I was following Detective Mazzetti because I wanted to talk to her. Only to talk.’

  ‘How did you find her to follow her?’ Novak asked.

  ‘I was at the station this morning, giving Fitzpatrick my statement, and I saw her with him,’ Hudson pointed to Clay, ‘and a few other people. I knew I needed to talk to her, so I waited until those two left the station and followed.’

  ‘What did you want to talk to her about?’ Clay asked.

  ‘March 15, eight years ago. The day her husband and son were murdered. And the day I lost.’ Hudson paced his small living room, then stopped, turning to meet their stares head-on. ‘What I didn’t put in my complaint was that I woke up in that hotel room with a gun by my hand. It had recently been fired. I didn’t know what I’d done. I checked all reported crimes, checked hospitals for gunshot wounds, but nothing turned up.’

  ‘Where’s the gun?’ Novak asked.

  ‘I turned it in to Ballistics. They got a hit. A John Doe pulled out of the Severn River a few months later. I went to the ME’s office to request the autopsy report. That’s where I met Ruby Gomez. The man who’d been killed by the gun in my possession was my father, John Hudson.’

  Clay exchanged a wary look with Novak. ‘You think,’ Clay said, ‘you killed your father?’

  ‘At first I did. My father was an addict. He beat my mother. I hated him, but I didn’t think I could’ve killed him. I didn’t remember doing so. But I lost more than a day and I didn’t know.’

  ‘So you consulted an at
torney?’ Novak asked. ‘When? Why?’

  ‘I didn’t. Ruby set it up for me on Sunday, and I went with it. Thorne’s given me good advice. He’d be shitting a ring right now if he knew I was talking to the FBI without him here.’

  ‘We can wait for him,’ Novak offered.

  ‘No. I’m done with this. I’ve got the witness who saw me drugged and a sketch artist waiting at the station. I want to know who it was that drugged me. Because that person probably killed my father.’

  ‘What does this have to do with Stevie Mazzetti?’ Clay asked.

  Hudson started pacing again. ‘It didn’t make sense that I’d be left with the gun. If one of my father’s dealers had killed him, there was no need to bring me into it. I knew it had to be something bigger. And the one thing that happened that same day was big.’

  ‘The murder of Paul Mazzetti and his son,’ Clay murmured.

  ‘And a convenience store clerk,’ Hudson said bitterly. ‘I can’t forget about her, either. Ruby and I viewed the footage of the robbery. I’m convinced the man who shot three people that day was my father.’

  Clay’s chest seized up. ‘They caught the man who did those murders. He’s serving life.’

  ‘They caught someone, but I don’t think it was the right guy. The man in the store surveillance video walked like my father. And he wore my hat. Which, along with his things and a matchbook from the bar where I was drugged, was returned to me this past Saturday. The same day Mazzetti gets attacked – twice. Coincidence? Hell no.’

  Clay shook his head, the ramifications too many to parse. ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I wish I were. This is a nightmare. When my father disappeared from our lives, I figured he’d OD’d somewhere or made the wrong person mad. This . . . this is worse than I ever imagined. This is going to break my mother’s heart. It’s already broken the hearts of Stevie Mazzetti and the family of the store’s cashier.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell this to JD Fitzpatrick?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Because until I got an ID on the guy who drugged me, it was all conjecture and I had the weapon. I’m a cop, Novak. I know how this works. And with all the dirty cops we’ve had popping up all over the place lately, I figured people would assume I was guilty before asking any questions. Thorne advised me to file the complaint so that whatever evidence I gathered from here on out would have an evidentiary chain.’

  ‘Why do you think your father robbed the store and killed three people?’ Novak asked.

  ‘When Ruby and I studied the store’s video, we noticed my father looking at a photo on his phone. It was me, tied to a chair in the hotel room where I woke up the next morning.’

  ‘You think he was coerced into robbing the store,’ Novak said.

  Hudson swallowed hard and when he spoke, his voice trembled. ‘I think he was coerced into murder. He didn’t take any money. But he did make sure that Paul Mazzetti was dead.’

  ‘Did your father have a connection to Paul Mazzetti?’ Novak asked. ‘Did he prosecute him on any drug charges, maybe?’

  ‘No. My father had gone to jail twice already, once for assaulting my mother and once for possession. But neither time was Paul Mazzetti involved. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Oh God. Pieces of conversation filtered through Clay’s mind. It suddenly made sense to him. His stomach pitched, bile rising to burn his throat. It made perfect, hideous sense.

  He heard Stevie’s voice, choked up and furious. I bought into it. I let Robinette manipulate me, even though I knew in my gut, in my heart, that he’d done it.

  That made you angry, Clay had said and Stevie’s voice had broken.

  It sure as hell did. That’s why I kept pushing to reopen the case. Robinette got away with it. That he’s crawled out from under his rock now, that he’s started this vendetta against me for killing Levi? It’s outrageous. The man is insane.

  No, not insane. And not a retaliation against the death of the son Robinette had served up as a sacrificial scapegoat.

  ‘Dear God,’ Clay whispered as it all became crystal clear.

  ‘What?’ Novak demanded. ‘Clay, you’re white as a sheet. Are you all right?’

  Clay shook his head slowly. ‘No.’ He might never be all right again.

  Stevie had retreated into herself for eight years believing her husband and son had been victims of a random act of violence. For eight years she’d carried the guilt of putting her son in the wrong place at the wrong time because she’d been too busy to pick him up at day care.

  Too busy trying to put Todd Robinette away for murder.

  An effort she’d abruptly abandoned to the shock and unparalleled grief of losing her family.

  What would happen when she found out the truth? That they’d been murdered on purpose. To throw her off Robinette’s trail. Because she wouldn’t let Robinette get away with it?

  It would destroy her.

  Clay slowly came to his feet. ‘We need to get Hudson to the station. We need his witness to tell the artist exactly who she saw.’

  The artist would draw a picture of Robinette. Of that Clay had no doubt. And then I’ll kill the SOB. I’ll rip his head off with my bare hands. And goddamn the consequences.

  Tuesday, March 18, 4.30 P.M.

  Sam found Ruby waiting with Thorne outside the conference room the sketch artist had been summoned to that morning. ‘Where’s Kayla?’ Sam demanded.

  ‘In there with Officer Damon, the artist,’ Ruby said. ‘He had only a few minutes to spare between appointments so I told them to go ahead.’

  Thorne took one look at him, and the two men with him, and frowned. ‘You told them everything,’ Thorne said flatly. ‘Without waiting for me.’

  ‘I did,’ Sam confirmed. ‘I appreciate all your support. I really do. But it was time to tell. And these two think they know who Kayla saw that night.’

  Thorne looked at Maynard, then Novak, seeming unsurprised to see them both. ‘I figured we’d meet up sooner or later. You want to dish? Who do you think Kayla saw?’

  Maynard shook his head, his expression grim. ‘Not yet.’

  At least Maynard looked almost normal, physically anyway. When he’d grown so pale earlier, Sam had first thought he’d kicked him too hard and done some permanent damage. That wasn’t the case, although whatever this was about, it was damn bad. Sam had seen a lot of men get bad news and none had ever looked like Maynard had.

  ‘You were smart to have your client report his assault,’ Novak said to Thorne. ‘Gave him just enough credibility to defuse a tense situation.’

  Sam winced when Ruby feathered her fingers over his jaw. She gave Novak an angry look. ‘You hit him?’

  ‘I hit him,’ Maynard said. ‘But he hit me first.’

  ‘You men are worse than children,’ she said. ‘Did you at least put ice on your jaw?’

  ‘I did,’ Sam said, smiling because she sounded like his mom. ‘I’m fine, Ruby.’

  ‘He was more worried that I was coming after you and Miss Richards,’ Maynard added. His voice was tinny, like he forced it from his chest, but the words were the perfect ones to say.

  Ruby’s eyes softened in the way Sam had so quickly come to anticipate. ‘That’s sweet.’

  Cheeks heating, Sam had no idea how to answer, but was saved from having that fact known by the opening of the conference room door.

  Sam’s artist friend, Damon, had an odd, wary look on his face, blinking when he saw the crowd that had assembled. ‘You’re all going to want to see this,’ he said.

  Kayla’s eyes widened as the group filed in. Sam patted her shoulder. ‘You okay?’

  She nodded. ‘I hope I did all right. The artist seemed . . . surprised.’

  ‘Let’s have it,’ Maynard said tightly. Everything about the PI was tight, like he was ready to explode. Novak must have sensed it too, because he put a steadying hand on Maynard’s arm.

  Damon flipped back the cover of his sketchpad and held up the picture he’d drawn.

  I
t was like someone had tossed a bomb in the room.

  Thorne’s jaw dropped. Novak swore. Ruby’s hand flew up to cover her mouth in horror.

  And Maynard crumpled, only managing to hit a chair on the way down because Novak and Thorne grabbed him.

  Sam leaned in, stared at the picture. Oh . . . Oh no. As recognition dawned, Sam understood both the significance of the face that Kayla had described and the horror that filled the room.

  Ruby turned her face into his chest, silently weeping. Sam stroked her hair, unable to give any comfort. I keep thinking it can’t get worse. But it kept seeming to.

  Tuesday, March 18, 6.45 P.M.

  Stevie paused, her keycard poised over the door to her room at the Peabody Hotel. She looked over her shoulder at Joseph, who seemed normal. Totally, unflappably normal.

  Except that he wasn’t. She didn’t know what was wrong. But something definitely was.

  It can’t be Clay. If he were hurt, Joseph would have taken her to him at the ER.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘I swear to God, Joseph . . .’

  He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I was told to bring you here, so I did. You go in your room, I’ll go next door. Novak and Coppola are in position, same as last night. Just in case.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks for the ride.’ Stevie ran the key through the reader and stepped through the door, thinking she had time for a quick shower before getting back to work. She’d been thinking about the witnesses she’d interviewed while investigating the murder of Robinette’s wife the first time around. She had time to see at least one tonight. She’d start with—

  She stopped, the heady aroma of flowers filling her head. Clay had filled the room with roses. Dozens and dozens of roses in every imaginable color. The table in the front room was set ‘fancy’, as Cordelia would call it – a white linen tablecloth with china and silver and crystal wine goblets. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket.

  A single rose lay across her plate.

  She picked it up carefully, then realized there were no thorns. He’d stripped them away. She sniffed the rose, then looked up to find him in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her.