A Breath Away

by Wendy Etherington

  She’d already briefed her partner on the suspected cause of their client’s shooting, so he’d dug much further back in Tremaine’s life.

  “Let’s hear the dirt,” she said.

  “He’s an orphan.”

  Despite preparing to be cynical, her heart stuttered. Guess the old money, vineyards and real estate he’d told Lucas about were part of his cover. “No kidding?”

  “Mom dropped him off at a Catholic orphanage when he was six months old. Father’s identity unknown—blank on the birth certificate. Tremaine was his mother’s last name, and she died three months after dropping him off with the nuns.”

  She swallowed.

  “Around the age of fifteen, an old family friend came to visit him. Tremaine met with him in private, then told the nuns that the man hadn’t known his family, that he’d been mistaken about his identity.

  “A few months later, he started sneaking out of the convent. He got caught a couple of times, and the nuns sent him to confession and counseling. At first, they figured he was out looking for drugs or alcohol, but others don’t think so.”

  “Who’d you get this from?”

  “One of the nuns.”

  Being raised Catholic, though she’d been lapsed for many years, Jade had a hard time picturing anybody grilling nuns. “She just offered all this up?”

  “I smiled nicely.”

  “Ha.”

  “And memorized a Bible verse she wanted me to learn.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Micah 2:1. It’s a warning about devising wickedness. Truth is, without the black cape and funny hat, she was kinda cute.”

  “Stop.” Jade held up her hand. “Oh, please stop.”

  Frank cleared his throat. “Anyway, I got the info. You wanna hear it, or not?”

  “He was sneaking out at night.”

  “Right. Nobody really knows what he was doing during all these late-night outings—except maybe the priest in the confessional booth—since Tremaine refused to tell anyone. But then the forays stopped. Supposedly.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “My opinion. I think he just stopped getting caught.”

  “Our thief was born.”

  “Makes sense. For the next year he was the model student. The day he turned eighteen, he packed his suitcase and headed out for parts unknown. The mail the nuns tried to send him came back.”

  Again, an odd, sinking feeling rolled through her stomach. Like her—until she’d found Lucas—Tremaine had been alone in the world. “He never went back?”

  “Oh, he went back. Brought a big freakin’ check that entirely renovated the orphanage—big-screen TVs, PCs, video-game units, board games, building blocks, playground equipment, solid-wood bunk beds, freshly painted walls. The works.”

  “Profits from an excellent thief.”

  Frank shrugged. “Maybe. He refused to let them credit him as the benefactor.”

  Just as he’d refused to defend himself earlier. She shook aside her emotions and concentrated on facts. “So he wanted a low profile.”

  “But why go back at all?”

  “They’d raised him,” she said.

  “Plenty of people are raised without being grateful.”

  Or aren’t as appreciative as they should be. At least until it’s too late. “A question to be probed.”

  “You’ve been around him longer. What do you think?”

  Oh, boy. “Could be guilt or genuine affection.”

  “You lean toward…?”

  She recalled the soft, persuasive feel of his lips on hers, the smile of invitation—and the blank look in his eyes when she’d questioned whether or not his money was tainted. For once, she went with her heart. “Affection. But where does the NSA come in?”

  “No idea there. Not surprisingly, no one will go on record. There are just the rumors we’ve all heard before—he turned evidence against a bigger, thieving fish. As far as personal impressions go, a couple of agents acknowledged they worked with him, but they found him competent and secretive—just what you’d expect.”

  “You called the NSA directly?”

  “No. Tipping our connection didn’t seem wise at the moment. I talked to trusted, but retired, people.”

  Jade leaned back against the door. “So, who’s this old family friend?”

  “No idea. The good sisters claimed not to know, either.”

  “Claimed?”

  “Their loyalty is with Tremaine.”

  “So we need to talk to him.”

  “You think he’s really going to tell us what we need to know?”

  “It’s his life. He’d better.”

  She turned the doorknob, determined to face the inevitable sooner than later.

  “Jade?”

  Turning, she met Frank’s gaze.

  “Are you okay with this?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about Lucas?”

  She fought against the hurt lingering near her heart. Why didn’t he just trust her to take care of things? “Did he call you?”

  “He left me a message. He’s worried about you.”

  I am, too. “I cut him out of this case. He’s mad.”

  “He could help.”

  She clenched her fists. “You’re not serious.”

  “He knows about the art world, the clientele. He’s known Tremaine longer. Maybe he could give us a perspective we aren’t seeing.”

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “Doesn’t mean he should be eliminated as an expert.”

  Though her instincts protested, she tried to focus on Frank’s words. She trusted him like no one else. “I need to think about that.”

  “Don’t think long. I imagine this case is gonna move quick.”

  Another knock rattled the door.

  When Jade opened it, David stuck his head inside. “The police are about to release the scene back to the restaurant. Do we want to check it out?”

  “They’re offering to let us?”

  “Apparently Tremaine’s name brings out the manners.”

  “Yeah.” Mentally, Jade shifted priorities in her head. She figured they’d have to sneak by the police scene restrictions. “Yeah, we want to see it.” She turned to her partner, who now stood behind her. “You and Mo stay here with Tremaine. David and I will go.”

  “Fine by me.” He rubbed his hands together. “I want to install that security system.”

  “Are we going to get a big bill from the Marriott for seriously altering their room?”

  “Humph. They’ll never know we were here.”

  As Frank stalked from the room, Jade followed, shaking her head. Questioning a man’s home improvement/computer skills was like questioning the strength of his libido.

  In the living room, she found their client beside Mo, both of them sitting at the dining room table amongst the surveillance and computer equipment.

  “See this button here?” Mo was saying as he held up a particularly sophisticated tracking device. “Press it and you get a GPS position, so—”

  “Feel free to give away all our secrets,” Jade said. As if Tremaine needed another specialty.

  The men rose.

  “Well, boss, he’s one of us, right?” Mo said, his massive size contrasting sharply with his contrite expression. “I figured—”

  “No, he’s not.” Her gaze flicked to Tremaine, who—naturally—smiled. “He’s a client, not a member of this team.”

  “But you have to admit, I’m not your usual client,” Tremaine said.

  “You’re unusual, all right. And that’s not a compliment,” she added when his grin widened. “Okay, people. We have a new development. The local cops are giving us an opportunity to check out the scene, so David and I will go.”

  “And me,” Tremaine added.

  “You’ll stay here with Mo and Frank, order lunch from room service and pretend to be traumatized.”

  “A wonderfully humiliating picture, but, no, I won’t.” />
  Did the man live to annoy just her, or was it everyone who didn’t let him run them over?

  “I don’t mind keeping an extra-sharp eye on him,” David said.

  Jade raised her eyebrows. “Do you usually keep a less than sharp eye on our clients?”

  He flushed. “Ah, well, no.”

  Tremaine approached her, and her pulse immediately, embarrassingly, sped up. “Are you telling me if you’d been shot, you’d let somebody else examine the scene?”

  He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t.

  “And you did promise you’d find a way to let me out.”

  “I was thinking of a stroll down to the lobby,” she said incredulously, “not to the scene of your near death.”

  “I need your help,” he said, staring down at her, “not for you to run my life.”

  The sincerity gleaming from his silver eyes made her instantly suspicious. This was an act for the crowd. He’d shift to ruthlessness without a qualm if it would facilitate getting his way.

  “My team gets to vote on the direction of cases. Clients don’t.”

  “Well, you’re just going to have to make an exception this time, aren’t you?”

  “The team votes. Guys?”

  Grumbling and mumbling ensued, all of which fell in Tremaine’s favor.

  “Fine. I know when I’m outnumbered.” She forced her anger to the pit of her stomach. It was an ego thing, after all. She wanted her way, and the others didn’t agree. She was arrogant, but not stupid. She knew Tremaine, unlike other clients, could handle himself, even though she knew she’d have to constantly remind him who was in charge.

  “I don’t like it.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “But it’s your funeral.” She smiled.

  “I was sort of hoping to avoid that.”

  “Mmm, well, Frank has gotten your signature on the standard security protection release, hasn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He will before we leave.” She turned back to the bedroom. She wanted to splash some water on her face. “Which we do in fifteen minutes.”

  5

  REMY EXITED THE limo alongside Jade and David in front of Plush, the restaurant where he’d been shot.

  The feelings of isolation and being locked in faded as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Power and confidence returned. He’d had to come back, he realized. Not just to forward the investigation, but to shed the sense of helplessness he’d been forced to embrace. The role he’d played that night had required him to swallow a huge part of himself—the warrior side.

  They walked into the restaurant, which was obviously winding down from the lunchtime rush. As Jade approached the maître d’, Remy started to intervene, but the man had obviously been forewarned about their arrival, because he frowned when he noticed Jade. “Ms. Broussard?”

  “That’s me.”

  “The detective is on the patio. Alone. We’ve been banned from allowing diners out there all day.”

  Jade shrugged, her head already turning toward the patio. “That’s their decision, not mine.”

  “Yes, well.” He spotted Remy. “Mr. Tremaine. Oh, sir, it’s so good to see you up and about. We were so grateful you weren’t seriously injured. We sent flowers to the hospital, but they said you’d already been released.”

  “Who said?” Jade asked abruptly, her head snapping around.

  The maître d’ blinked. “The person who answered the phone at the hospital.”

  “Did he give any other information?” she asked sharply.

  “No.” He looked to Remy and smiled. “But now you’re here, so instead we’ll serve you a wonderful lunch—on the house, of course.”

  Remy laid his hand on the maître d’s shoulder. “Thank you so much, John, but I’m afraid I can’t take the time today.”

  “But you will dine here again, sir, won’t you?” he asked, almost desperately, as Remy turned away.

  “You can count on it.”

  “At least the yahoos at the hospital didn’t give out your home address,” Jade said as they headed toward the patio.

  “Probably because I didn’t give it to them. But my office is easily known. I’d like to go there next.”

  “Not until after we do a bomb sweep.”

  “With all that equipment at the hotel, I’m sure you can arrange that without a problem.”

  “I’ll be sure to put it on top of my list, sir.”

  “You didn’t honestly expect I’d sit by, did you?” he asked, well aware she was ticked he’d won their minor skirmish about his coming along.

  “No, but I don’t have to be happy about it, do I?”

  “Ms. Broussard.” A man with a crew cut and wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in khakis and a navy polo shirt approached them as they walked onto the patio. “I thought I recognized you getting out of the limo.”

  Jade shook his hand briefly. “Did you? I don’t think we’ve met, Detective….”

  “Parker. Your cousin Lucas and I have worked a few cases together. He described you.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “All the way down to your boots.”

  Jade smiled wanly. “He’s efficient that way. This is Remington Tremaine and my associate, David Washington.”

  “We’ve been anxious to depose Mr. Tremaine. How convenient that he’s here now.”

  His formal, polite tone was at odds with the demeanor of most cops Remy had come into contact with. A formality for him? Or rather for his art-dealer persona?

  “We’re an accommodating bunch,” Jade said, her sarcasm apparently lost on the detective. “Why don’t you do that while I look around?”

  “Fine. Mr. Tremaine?” Parker extended his arm to indicate a two-seater table on the other side of the patio from where Remy had been shot. Remy sat opposite him while occasionally shooting glances at Jade, who’d knelt on the ground.

  She ran her hand across a dark stain on the floor, where his blood had seeped into the concrete. He found the act strangely intimate. A shiver rolled through his body. What would have happened if she had been his date that night?

  For one, he wouldn’t have had to listen to inane chatter about hair and makeup tips for blondes.

  Would she have reacted more quickly? Could she have apprehended the shooter? She certainly would have given chase, which he hadn’t. He’d been so concerned about protecting his cover he’d done little but appear helpless.

  At the hospital she would have been fierce and demanding. No bull, no PR quotes, no evasive answers. She’d fight for him. After being alone for so long, he liked the idea of a caretaker, of someone battling for him, alongside him.

  He wished the two of them could have come to the scene alone—which he’d planned to do after hours, under the comfortable cover of darkness. But that was before the police made their generous offer. Their generous, secret-agenda-attached offer.

  During most of his cases, he found the local cops to be an inconvenience or an annoyance—though maybe that judgment was a holdover from his thieving days. Still, he recognized that for everyone else in the country they were the first line of defense against a dangerous, unpredictable world. They did a mostly thankless job for not near the compensation they deserved. So, he could stuff his uneasiness and arrogance—and, be honest, his guilt—for a few minutes.

  “I understand Ms. Broussard is from New Orleans,” Detective Parker said.

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you live here.”

  Remy nodded, pretending he had no idea where Parker was going with his questions. “Yes.”

  “Her cousin is your attorney, who’s also from New Orleans.”

  “I believe he had a law practice there at one time.”

  “Your birthplace is listed as San Francisco.”

  “Yes.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. Obviously, he was frustrated that his leading questions were going nowhere. “How did you meet Jade and Lucas Broussard?”

  “Lucas was recommended to me by a colleague so
me years ago. He, in turn, recommended Ms. Broussard for security services.”

  “You often require a bodyguard?”

  “No. I require security services.”

  “As an art dealer.”

  “And businessman.”

  Parker was fishing with a long rod and the bait wasn’t tempted enough to bite. Remy’s public profile had been carefully crafted and filled in by the NSA. Maybe Parker sensed something wasn’t completely right with Remy’s bio, or maybe somebody higher up the chain of command had insisted on special treatment for him. Maybe Parker was simply curious about why Remy would hire a woman for his security detail. Whichever, the detective definitely wanted the scoop.

  Not that he’d get it.

  Parker laid a minirecorder on the table. “So, let’s talk about the shooting two nights ago.”

  Remy responded to the interrogation and gave as detailed an account as he could recall. Though he was certain his case was beyond the local police, he gave as much information as he could. Anybody could break a case. A patrol cop, the chief of police or the owner of a delicatessen.

  As he glanced beyond the patio to the sidewalk, he realized—again, as he had the night of the shooting—that the only thing separating the people on the street from the diners was a three-foot-high wrought-iron fence. Why had the would-be assassin chosen this spot, this time? There were way too many elements of chance to take into account and way too much risk.

  During the questioning, he had a hard time focusing. He wanted to go to Jade. He wanted to kneel beside her and see what she saw, get her perspective.

  But he wasn’t supposed to know anything about bloodstains or shooting trajectories. This trade-off, this lie that enabled him to do his job, always bothered him. But he did it.

  For the greater good? Or for his own protection?

  When they finished, he and the detective walked over to David and Jade.

  “What caliber weapon was used?” she asked, rising from a crouch as they approached.

  “Nine millimeter. We found three shell casings.” Parker pointed to the specific spots.

  “What about photos?”

  “Ah, they’re at the station. I can’t really…” He glanced nervously at Remy. “You could ask the captain.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”