The Man from Texas

by Rebecca York

  “You can buy anything you need.”

  “I want my own stuff.”

  “Okay,” he agreed grudgingly. “If you’ll come along peacefully.”

  “Under duress, Sheriff Pritchard,” she mocked.

  “I’m not Sheriff Pritchard,” he contradicted, but a little smile flickered at the corners of his lips, then disappeared before she was even sure she’d seen it.

  When she pushed herself up, she was annoyed to find her legs were shaky. “We should go get my stuff,” she said brusquely, trying to let him know that she was in complete control of her emotions.

  “Didn’t you come down here to get my fingerprints?” he asked, reminding her that she’d completely forgotten why they were in her office.

  “Yeah, right.”

  The kit was in her purse. She started to pull it out, then changed her mind, raising her eyes to Luke’s. She had an idea and wanted to test it out.

  “How am I going to take your fingerprints?” she asked. “I mean, what’s the procedure? Do you know?”

  She watched him carefully as he considered the question.

  “The latest technology uses a scanner, kind of like at a grocery store, to scan bar codes. But a P.I.’s office probably uses an ink pad or the chemical system where you roll the fingers over a moist pad containing a colorless, odorless, non-staining chemical, then roll the prints onto a card. Absolutely nothing shows up until the card is heated. Then the chemical reaction gives you beautiful clean prints. There are also pocket versions that don’t require heat that work fairly well on the street.”

  She stared at him. “How do you suppose you know all that?”

  He shrugged the way he had when she’d inquired about his cooking skills, but she could see an edge of excitement under his calm exterior.

  “I think you’re in law enforcement,” she stated.

  “I think a criminal is as likely as a cop to know what I just told you.”

  “Suit yourself.” She pulled out the kit she’d put in her purse before she left home. “Sometimes when I want to intimidate a suspect, I use the messy ink method.”

  He laughed.

  “Give me your right hand.”

  He complied, and she held his large hand in her much smaller one, vividly aware of his warm, slightly rough skin. She had kissed this man not long ago. And despite what she’d said, she couldn’t turn off her reaction to him.

  Awkwardly, she pressed his thumb against the chemical pad, rolling it from one side to the other, then pressing it onto the correct box on the fingerprint card.

  He cleared his throat but said nothing, keeping his muscles relaxed, allowing her to do the work.

  When she’d finished with the right hand, she went on to the left, repeating the whole procedure. By the time she’d finished, she was fighting a breathless feeling.

  “I suggest you wash your hands before you eat,” she said, hearing the thinness of her voice.

  Silently he nodded and disappeared through the bathroom door. As she stood listening to the sound of running water, she concentrated on taking deep, even breaths.

  Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Too much was still happening. And she didn’t know how to cope.

  A few months ago she’d had the rug jerked out from under her, and she’d struggled back to some semblance of normality. Now Ron Wexler was dead, and someone had tried to kill her. And she’d be a fool not to be worried, even if she had given Luke an argument about it.

  He appeared in the bathroom door, drying his hands on a paper towel. His posture was casual, but she was learning to read his face. Though he tried to keep it neutral, he couldn’t hide the tension around his eyes and mouth.

  “Are you worried about what the FBI fingerprint database is going to come up with?” she asked.

  “The FBI doesn’t work with P.I.s. Only the police. How are you going to get them to take a look at that card?”

  “How do you know who they work with?”

  “I just do.” He gave her his maddening shrug again.

  “That’s another interesting fact, don’t you think?”

  “That and five dollars might be enough to get you a cup of cappuccino,” he said.

  She hesitated for a moment, then made a decision to trust him with some private information. “There are things we can do here at 43 Light Street that aren’t strictly by the book. Randolph Security can get into the FBI fingerprint database.”

  “What’s Randolph Security?”

  “A company started as a spin-off of Randolph Electronics. Now it offers a wide range of security services including some they don’t advertise. And the less I say about that, the better.”

  “I’ll defer to your judgment, darlin’,” Luke said mildly.

  But she wasn’t fooled for a moment. It suited him to defer to her judgment, so he was willing to do it. As soon as he didn’t like the way things were going, he’d take control again.

  She’d ponder that later, she decided as they took the elevator upstairs again to Randolph Security. The headquarters building was in Towson, but the company found it convenient to maintain a branch office at 43 Light Street as well as a secure research facility in western Maryland.

  Jed Prentiss, Marissa’s husband, was doing a shift at the Light Street office, probably because it gave him a chance to have lunch with his wife. While Hannah told him that she wanted the prints run as soon as possible, she watched him and Luke size each other up, the way Cal and Luke had evaluated each other a little while ago. This time she was in better shape to appreciate the mutual mistrust—and it struck her that in a lot of ways, Cal, Jed and Luke were very much alike.

  They were all cautious, suspicious, take-charge kind of guys who were dangerous when provoked. But they all had a softer side as well. Cal had come running to warn her as soon as he’d gotten the news about her dead colleague. Jed was completely devoted to Marissa. And Luke had proved that protecting her was one of his top priorities.

  When she caught the direction her mind was taking, she brought herself up short. Luke was protecting her because he’d also hired her to do a job for him and it was in his best interest to keep her safe.

  “Whose prints are they?” Jed asked.

  “Mine,” Luke answered, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. As with Kathryn, his drawl became lazier as he drew out the syllable.

  Jed’s gaze shot to him again.

  “And what’s the purpose of checking them?”

  Luke made an openhanded gesture. “Well, now, I’m in the unfortunate situation of not knowing my identity. I’ve hired Ms. Dawson to help me find out who I am. She’s been bragging on y’all, tellin’ me you can get into the FBI database.”

  Hannah struggled to keep her expression neutral as she took in the shift in Luke’s mannerisms. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was a good ol’ country boy just stopping in to pay a friendly visit on Randolph Security.

  Jed swung his gaze to her, and she had the feeling he wished they were speaking in private.

  “You want to ask me if I trust him,” she said, answering the question in his eyes. “The answer is yes.”

  Jed nodded. Beside her, Luke relaxed a fraction.

  “Then I’ll be in touch when I get the results,” Jed said.

  They left the office and headed for the elevator again.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, darlin’,” Luke said as she pushed the button. “At least in public, since you’re not feeling perfectly sure about our association.”

  “Neither are you,” she retorted.

  Hannah waited for him to continue the conversation when they stepped into the elevator, but he chose to remain silent.

  “You can be pretty maddening,” she said in a low voice. “And you haven’t even paid me yet.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly write you a check. I’ll give you a wad of cash when we get to my place.”

  “Which is where?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it here
.”

  She might have pressed him, but she knew he had his reasons. “Are you parked in the garage?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She led him across the street to the four-story concrete structure. It was dark inside, darker than usual. Glancing up, she saw that the lights were out.

  Luke noticed it too and stopped in the entryway.

  When she started for her car, he put his hand on her arm. “Your vehicle is known. It’s safer to take mine.”

  “Fine.” She wondered what kind of wheels a guy with a million dollars at his disposal would buy. He’d selected a slightly battered four-wheel-drive Dodge Ram that he’d either stolen or bought from a downscale used-car lot.

  As he leaned down to insert his key in the lock, a figure darted away from the other side of the vehicle and started running.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Acting instinctively, Luke pushed Hannah behind the truck fender, then took off after the fleeing figure, running in a crouched position to make himself less of a moving target.

  He saw the guy vault the wall at the end of the garage. As Luke reached the low concrete barrier, several gunshots plowed into a support post inches from his head.

  The small pistol he’d tucked into an ankle holster was instantly in his hand. But the sound of running feet told him there wasn’t going to be a shoot-out at the Light Street garage. In the next moment, a car engine roared to life and tires spun on concrete. Peering over the wall, he was in time to see a dark sedan careening around the corner.

  A curse rose to his lips as he watched the vehicle disappear. It was too far away for him to get the license number, assuming it would do him any good.

  When he looked to his right, he found Hannah standing next to him, staring down the alley at the spot where the car had disappeared.

  “That guy was shooting at you!”

  “Yeah.” Hustling her back to the Dodge, he got down on his knees, carefully inspecting the vehicle’s undercarriage. Then he tried the doors. They were still locked, which was good.

  The bad news was that he heard the sound of police sirens in the distance.

  His mind must have been functioning pretty well, because he remembered to unlock the vehicle and remove the garage-door opener. Then, keeping his voice low and easy, he turned back to Hannah. “This vehicle is known to the shooter, so I guess we’re gonna take your car after all. Which one is it?”

  Wordlessly, she pointed toward a blue Ford.

  When she started toward the driver’s door, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll drive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve already got a bunch of stuff to think about—like getting us out of here before the cops arrive. Giving you directions is too distracting.”

  Conceding the point, she handed him her keys. When his fingers touched hers, he felt the coldness of her flesh. He wanted to reach for her then, wrap her in his arms, but that was a luxury neither one of them could afford at the moment.

  Instead he unlocked the car and they got in. There was a pocket in the door for maps where he put his gun to keep it handy as he started the engine and made tracks out of the garage, all his senses alert for trouble.

  A man in a business suit peered around the entrance to the parking deck, glancing furtively in their direction. Luke tensed, but the guy only scurried toward a car several rows down.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw a patrol car with flashing red and blue lights nose around the corner moments after he’d pulled into the street.

  You’re just a civilian going about his business, he told himself, fighting the impulse to speed up. They don’t know you came out of the garage. Nevertheless, his hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles ached as he drove down the block at a sedate pace. He didn’t let up the pressure until he’d put a couple of city blocks between himself and the garage, glancing frequently in the rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. Finally, when they were several blocks away and he was sure nobody was tailing them, he turned to Hannah.

  She was sitting with her head thrown back against the headrest, her face pale.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I should have drawn my weapon,” she said in a flat voice. “That’s the second time I haven’t managed to do it on the street. Last night and today. Two for two.”

  “You pulled a gun on me.”

  “That was different. You—you were threatening me in my apartment. I had plenty of time to think about defending myself.”

  His vehement curse filled the car’s small passenger compartment. “I’m not going to listen to you beat yourself up. Neither one of us was expecting this guy just now to start shooting. And you weren’t in any position to fire.”

  “Does it bruise your male ego being associated with an ex-cop who wimps out in a firefight?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you think I’m the kind of guy who looks for scapegoats when the hit man gets away?”

  She shrugged. “Forget I said it.”

  He swung his head toward her again, taking in her pinched expression. “No. What’s going on here? Are you talking about me or somebody else?”

  “Drop it.”

  Luke might have reminded her that she’d started the conversation. But he knew when to cut his losses. Some male chauvinist had made her doubt herself. He wanted to know who, but as he’d pointed out earlier, he had other things on his mind at the moment. So he clamped his jaw shut and kept driving.

  When he’d decided she wasn’t going to say anything else, he heard her clear her throat. “I guess you were right,” she said in a thin voice. “The guy who killed Ron is after me.”

  “I don’t think so. The shooter was beside my truck. We didn’t come here together. That makes it more likely that someone was after me, not you.”

  “Who was he?”

  “It could be a random robbery attempt.” He coughed to clear the sudden tightness in his chest. “Or maybe one of the hombres who wants his million bucks back has tracked me to Baltimore.”

  “You think that’s likely?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been careful. But we have to consider the possibility that somebody spotted me on the street.”

  She made a small sound that he took for agreement.

  “But that doesn’t cancel out my previous advice about not heading back to your apartment.”

  “If somebody’s spotted you, then your place isn’t any safer than mine.”

  “If they’ve made their move in a parking garage, I’m assuming that they don’t know where I’m living,” he argued, but he was thinking that she might be right. It was time to move.

  After that, neither one of them seemed to have more to say, so he reached to turn on the radio, playing a little game with himself that he’d been playing since he’d woken up in Chicago. What tunes can Luke Pritchard name?

  He found a country-western station and listened to a couple of oldies he recognized. Then he fiddled with the dial again and stopped when he heard a deejay speaking Spanish, talking about the song he’d just played. Then listened to a commercial for a Latin American grocery store.

  “You understand that?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m only picking up some of the words.”

  “‘We carry the products you’re looking for,’” he translated. “‘Masa harina, plantains, pigeon peas.’”

  “What’s masa harina?”

  “Corn that’s dried and ground. You mix it with water to make tamales and tortillas.”

  “If you say so.” Hannah gave him a pointed look, then glanced away.

  He’d gotten to know the city pretty well, so he took a circuitous route to the place he’d rented in Canton, then circled the block several times looking for anyone who might be watching the place. There were no signs of surveillance.

  The furnished condominium was probably part of an urban-renewal project. There was a private garage underneath each unit. U
sing the remote control he’d rescued from the Dodge, he pressed the button that opened the door, then, mindful of the recent unpleasantness in Ron Wexler’s garage, he paused to inspect the area. There was nowhere to hide in the small space, so he pulled in, then shut the door behind them.

  “Wait here,” he told Hannah as he got out of the truck.

  She did as he asked, and he made a quick check of the town house. Until today it had seemed like a safe haven. Now he wasn’t quite so confident.

  When he found no evidence of an intruder, he motioned Hannah to follow him through the connecting door, across the rec room and up a flight of steps to the living area. As soon as she stepped from the stairwell, she started inspecting the plush furnishings. “You rented something like this on a short-term basis?”

  “Yeah, from a company that specializes in renting to guys temporarily transferred away from home. I told them I was on a half-year assignment to a computer company in Baltimore, and paid for six months in advance.”

  She was still looking pale as she dropped to the sofa. So he got out the bottle of bourbon he’d bought and poured her a shot.

  She stared at the glass and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like bourbon.”

  “It’s good for what ails you.”

  Like a child forced to take a foul-tasting medicine, she tipped back her head and downed the amber liquid in a couple swallows. Then, thunking the glass down on the coffee table, she asked, “Are you going to show me the cash?”

  “Yeah.” Feeling his throat tighten, he turned away and headed for his bedroom, where he pulled a scuffed canvas suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. It wasn’t the same suitcase that had initially held the money. He’d ditched that one in a Chicago Dumpster and gotten this one at Goodwill.

  He felt the weight of Hannah’s gaze as he came back down the stairs with the bag in hand. He wasn’t sure why showing her the money made him feel so queasy. But it was like a guilty secret he’d been trying to hide, and this was the moment when he had to reveal it.

  Keeping his face expressionless, he set the suitcase down on the coffee table, then pulled the zipper tab, half hoping that when he opened the lid, he’d find out he’d been mistaken all along.