“We should all be in the book,” stated Hasan, one of the two parolees she’d just met.
“I’m in.” Corey’s eyes shone like new pennies behind his lenses. Only Davis still looked uncommitted, his expression as secretive and shifty as ever.
Nadim glanced uncertainly at the surveillance cameras. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ in this place,” he asserted in his Spanish accent. “Might get my ass sent back to jail.”
Lena had anticipated his objection. “Oh, no. We’d go into the storeroom to talk,” she assured him. “I hardly have any customers after eight, anyway. That way we’d have plenty of privacy and no cameras.” She would definitely keep her pistol handy, though, in case any of the men got over-zealous.
The parolees eyed the rear room with interest. Several edged toward it to give it a closer look, even Davis. Lena’s excitement rose. The minnows are nibbling.
“What would the title be?” Corey spoke up.
A bubble of guilt rose from Lena’s belly as she noted his excitement. “Oh, I don’t know. Out of the Shadows, or something like that? What about you, Sulayman?” she asked, eager to gain his compliance. “I bet you’ve got a story for me,” she said in her sexiest voice.
“Oh, I got somethin’ for you, a’ight.” He licked his lips, giving his words a crude connotation.
Muhammed took immediate offense. “Man, don’t be talkin’ to Miz Maggie like that.”
“Shut up,” Davis told him. “I don’t want my name in no damn book.”
“What name? I only know you as Sulayman, and I have no intention of using your last name. There have to be thousands of converts named Sulayman. You’d be completely anonymous.”
“Whatever,” he said with a shrug.
That was enough of a commitment for Lena. She hunted for a scrap of paper and a pen. “Who wants me to interview them first?”
“I get to go first,” Muhammed insisted. “I called it the first day.”
“Muhammed’s first,” she agreed, jotting down his name. “Why don’t you come in tomorrow, then, and we’ll get started.”
“Wait a second.” Jamal frowned. “How you gonna write a book in just three weeks? We all leavin’ after that.”
“That’s plenty of time to interview you. I just need an hour with each of you, say right at 8 P.M. That way you’ll be done by curfew. Before you leave Gateway, we’ll exchange contact information so we can keep in touch.”
Jamal tried to negotiate a fifty-fifty split on royalties.
Lena smiled wryly. “Sorry, babe. That would compromise your anonymity.” She jotted down the names of all the men present. “Where’s Abdul?” she asked, casually glancing up at Corey. It had taken the wind out of her sails when he’d failed to show up tonight.
Corey shrugged and looked around. “I don’t know.”
“Ask him if he wants to be interviewed.” A danger to her or not, they had to discuss the roadblocks he kept throwing up on her highway to justice. “Tell him I have a slot open this week.”
Jamal elbowed Hasan. “You hear that? She got a slot open for Abdul.”
“Man, shut up,” Muhummed snapped.
Feeling her face heat, Lena fixed her attention on the schedule she was putting together. “Muhammed, Jamal, and Nadim, I have you down for this week. Corey, Sulayman, Hasan, and—what was your name again?” she asked the other parolee she’d just met.
“Shahid,” he said.
“Shahid.” She wrote his name down. “You four can come next week.”
“We can’t do Friday nights,” Corey reminded her.
“I already factored in your Friday night service. We even have an extra week in case I need to follow up with any one of you,” she assured him as she handed each man a piece of paper with his appointment noted on it. “Give this one to Abdul for me?” she asked Corey. She still hoped to see him sooner than Wednesday night when she’d set aside time to interview him. But, if not, he’d at least get the message that she wanted to talk.
As Davis accepted his appointment, pinpricks trekked up Lena’s arms and stabbed at her scalp.
She had done it! She’d secured an interview with her sister’s killer. The next step—getting him to reveal incriminating evidence—was going to be the hard part.
**
“Here’s your appointment time to interview for Maggie’s book,” Corey announced.
Stretched out on the bottom bunk, Jackson accepted the scrap of paper Corey offered him and glanced down at the decisively written Wednesday, 8 P.M. His pulse sped up at the prospect of a private interview three nights from now.
“She must like you,” Corey noted with a pout. “I gots to wait till next week.”
“You ain’t serious,” Jackson said, ignoring Corey’s observation. “She expects us to talk to her under all those cameras?”
“Naw, man. She takin’ us all into the back room, where there ain’t no cameras.” Corey tried to hide his grin of anticipation.
Jackson frowned. What the hell was Lena Alexandra thinking, boxing herself, alone and defenseless, into a small room with ex-cons? “Is Sulayman getting interviewed?” he demanded, wondering if an interview with Davis was her real intent.
“Yeah. I think he go next week, right after me. Why?”
“No reason,” Jackson muttered, looking away.
“You don’t think she should be alone with him,” Corey guessed. “I know, right. He ain’t like the rest of us.”
“No, he ain’t,” Jackson agreed. He wondered how far Lena would go to discover Davis’s darkest secrets. What did they matter to her, anyway?
There were two ways to find out. One, the Taskforce analysts would eventually discover what linked Lena and Davis. Or two, Jackson could just follow his own instincts this time and ask her himself.
“So, you in?” Corey eyed him closely.
“I’ll think about it,” he hedged.
Corey chuckled. “Yeah, you playin’ all cool about it. I know you ain’t missin’ that appointment.” He ambled into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door.
As Jackson pictured himself sitting face-to-face with Lena, it occurred to him with starling clarity that, as a journalist, Lena would never conduct interviews without a camera handy.
Holy hell! He and Toby had completely overlooked the obvious. Her Canon Rebel wasn’t the only camera in her possession. She had to have a hidden one, as well, which meant she probably still had more pictures of Jackson than those they’d already seized.
Son of a bitch! Where was the goddamn thing?
Sifting through his memories of her, he hunted for the kind of items that disguised miniature recording devices—something like a watch, an ink pen, or a hair clip.
What about her necklace? Dangling between her delectable melon breasts, where he’d love to bury his face, it had caught his eye on more than one occasion. While the stone in the pendant varied, the setting was always the same—a tear-shaped bail with a scroll-pattern at the top, inlaid with a diamond chip. Only, he’d bet his next paycheck that wasn’t a diamond chip; it was a fucking lens.
He threw an arm over his eyes. The pendant explained so much, like how she always seemed to stand with stiff shoulders and glide as she turned, like a jewelry box ballerina. He’d mistakenly assumed that she was flaunting her wares to her admirers, but it wasn’t that at all. She’d been aiming her camcorder.
Christ, he had to take the thing away from her before she ruined his investigation.
Only, Ike would never agree to that. He knew exactly what kind of plan Ike would want to execute: Send Toby over to catch Lena unawares. Toby could grab her after work on her way to her car and rip the necklace off her throat. End of story.
All Jackson had to do was share his revelation with Ike, and it would be over.
He teased his ear bud out of his pajama pocket. In the bathroom, Corey had just turned on the shower. Jackson could give Ike a quick call. He knew Toby would be more than glad to address the situation.
On the
verge of dialing the team lead, Jackson hesitated. He pictured Lena struggling in Toby’s grasp. The mental image evoked both jealousy and reluctance. He didn’t want Toby touching Lena. The thought of Toby bruising her or, worse yet, charming her like some dashing bandit, left a bitter taste in Jackson’s mouth.
So, what now, Stonewall? demanded a voice in his head that sounded just like Toby’s.
I’ll take care of it myself.
No sooner did the thought cross his mind than the neon sign for Artie’s flickered and went out. On Sunday nights, Lena closed at ten. If he wanted to catch her before she left, he needed to get over there ASAP.
Rolling out of bed, he scribbled a note to Corey on the same scrap of paper that held his interview time. Be right back.
He hoped to God Corey wouldn’t blow the whistle on him for breaking curfew. Leaving the note on the book his roommate was currently reading, Jackson jammed his feet into his sneakers, pulled on a dark T-shirt, and let himself out.
Chapter Eight
Floodlights at either end of Artie’s kept Jackson hemmed behind the dumpster. His heart beat out a primal rhythm as he waited like a panther for Lena to leave the store, which should be any minute now. A moment ago, he’d overheard the locks at the front of the store scrape closed, which meant she’d be leaving via the delivery door at the rear of the store where the sabotaged surveillance camera had yet to be fixed.
Conscious of the anticipation zinging through his veins, Jackson realized he was blatantly defying orders for the first time in his life. While the ramifications made him nervous—who in his right mind would want to piss off Ike?—the physiological effect was highly stimulating.
Insane amounts of endorphins and adrenaline ricocheted through his body. No wonder it was human nature to defy the rules. What had obedience gotten him in the past but a shit-load of responsibility and a miserable, neglected wife, anyway?
It wasn’t like Ike wanted Lena Alexandra toting around a hidden camera with images of his undercover agent on it. In seizing it himself, he’d save Toby the trouble or, rather, the pleasure of stealing it himself.
If anyone was going to confront Lena, Jackson figured it should be the man who’d first laid eyes on her. Since that was him, he got dibs.
At the sound of the rear exit clanking open, he rounded the corner of the dumpster unseen by the woman moving briskly toward him. Up the alley she stalked, between the back of the store and the ivy-choked chain-link fence.
Two more seconds. Now. Walking out of the shadows, he intercepted her path.
With an audible gasp, Lena startled back, but to her credit, she didn’t scream. The chink of coins as she clutched a pouch to her chest told him she was carrying money.
“Abdul,” she exclaimed, recognizing him in the scant light that wrapped around the edges of the building. “What the hell do you want?”
Her hostile tone left no doubt that she blamed him for the wreckage at her rental.
“Why are you still in the area?” he demanded, acknowledging his guilt as he bore down on her.
She scuttled backward until her heels hit the wall, but instead of seeming afraid of him she glared at him fearlessly. “We need to talk,” she stated resolutely.
Talking wasn’t part of the plan. He’d come over here to reiterate his threats, confiscate her pendant, and leave. “I don’t think so.” He spoke in the same, cold voice he’d used for interrogating insurgents in the war. Too bad, insurgents had never smelled so damn delicious nor looked so damn hot. “You need to leave this place and not come back.”
Her eyes flashed like road reflectors. “Who’s going to make me, you?” she scoffed.
Her temerity amazed him, though he did elicit a flinch as he dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Yes,” he said. Transferring one hand to the slim, silky column of her throat, he encircled it with just enough conviction to elicit a tremor of fear. Beneath his palm, her pendant glinted in the dark.
She held defiantly still. “What are you going to do? Kill me with your bare hands?” she taunted, calling his bluff.
Curling his fingers around the sturdy silver links of her necklace, he readied himself to rip the chain off. But her enticing scent and the luscious curve of her lips sparked an overwhelming desire to steal a kiss first. He drew her closer and lowered his head, intent on crushing his mouth over hers.
But before their lips even touched, the cold, blunt tip of what felt like a pistol gouged his abdomen. Next came the unmistakable click of a gun’s safety.
Where in hell had that come from?
“Step away from me, Abdul, or I’ll drop you dead right here,” she grated sweetly.
All Jackson could do was to stare at her in astonishment.
“You think I won’t?” She gave a soft throaty laugh that stirred both his incredulity and his libido. “I can claim you attacked me for the money, and that I shot you in self-defense. You’re an ex-con on parole, and I’m a helpless, solitary female. There isn’t a jury in the state of Maryland that wouldn’t support my right to defend myself.”
Helpless, my ass, he thought, though truth was he could knock that little gun right out of her hands and overcome her in an instant. The pistol might just go off in the process, however, drawing unwanted attention to Artie’s and possibly even injuring one of them. Maybe they ought to have that little talk she’d just mentioned.
“Let’s discuss this,” he said, wondering what the hell could be so important that she would disregard both a death threat and an assault in a dark alley.
“What a fine idea. Take three steps back,” she ordered on a harder note.
Reluctant to relinquish his hold on her necklace, Jackson nonetheless let go and backed away three paces. He hoped she wasn’t filming his humiliation. For the time being, though, his attention was focused on the pistol in her competent-looking grasp. “Easy, woman,” he cautioned, when she leveled it at his chest.
“Don’t call me that. I am sure as hell not your woman.”
Yeah, that was the part of all this that bothered him the most.
“Now listen to me and listen well,” she seethed, her fury returning. “I have no intention of leaving the area until my book is written, so get that through your thick skull now. Perhaps you’d like to know, in the meantime, that I still have videos of you in my possession, despite the fact that you stole my three thousand dollar camera and my laptop. I swear to you I’ll put your face on every widely publicized forum in the country if you tell anyone what you learned about me from pillaging my laptop.”
He glanced down at her pendant, certain that little sucker was the source of her so-called videos. Had she offloaded those she’d taken previously, or were they still stored in the pendant’s memory?
“Tell me what you’re after,” Jackson demanded, struggling to fathom her plans.
“I just told you. I have a book to write.”
That wasn’t the whole story and he knew it. “Why all the pictures of me?” he persisted. “What do you want with Sulayman?”
The pointed question turned her rigid. “Considering the havoc you wreaked on my life the other night, I don’t think I owe you any answers,” she retorted. “You’re damn lucky I don’t just shoot you out of spite. In fact, I suggest you haul ass now before I change my mind.”
Jackson considered lunging for the pendant first. Only he didn’t trust her not to shoot him—probably not lethally but in a spot that would slow him down and force him to have to explain how he came by a bullet wound. He couldn’t risk getting thrown out of Gateway for violating rules of behavior.
With a grin that promised retribution, he accepted that he had lost this round. “See you Wednesday, then,” he tossed out with a grin that promised retribution. Before she could cancel his scheduled interview, he withdrew behind the dumpster. Darting through a break in the chain-link fence, he crouched behind the ivy to watch her jump into Schlesser’s Jeep and peel out of the parking.
An incredulous chuckle sandpapered Jackson’s
throat as he recalled how she’d attempted to turn the tables on him. But then he pictured her having to do the same with a hardened criminal like Davis, and his humor evaporated.
She might be able to hold her own with Abdul, who was, in actuality, a law-abiding citizen, but Davis was another animal altogether.
What could be so important to Lena that she would ignore a death threat to get it?
As her taillights faded in the direction of the bank, he pushed to his feet and headed in defeat toward his dorm room. Tomorrow, he’d alert his colleagues to Lena’s pendant and warn them that she was also packing heat. Hell if he’d tell them how he’d found that out, though.
**
With fingers locked around the steering wheel, Lena flew up the 235 to PNC Bank.
Dear God. A belated shiver of horror cascaded through her. Had Abdul really planned on strangling her to death?
For some strange reason, she hadn’t felt like her life was actually in danger. She just didn’t fear the man. Maybe it was the restraint in his long, warm fingers. Or the unspoken communication that seemed to exist between them assuring her that he was all bluster and no bloodlust. But, hell, if he could commit larceny, which he’d basically admitted to, what made her think he wouldn’t stoop to murder?
Because he hadn’t come close to inflicting the kind of punishment she’d experienced at the hands of angry criminals before police supervision interceded, that was why. And right before she’d pulled her gun on him, she could have sworn he was about to kiss her.
Careening off the highway under the bright lights of the bank drive-thru, Lena dropped the money pouch through her lowered window into the drop-off box. As she tugged the bar that swept it safely into the vault, her disposable phone buzzed. She knew it was Peter calling; no one else had this number.
“Hey,” she answered, smoothing the quaver from her voice.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, surprisingly astute.
“Yeah, sure.” If he knew what was really going on, he’d badger her to return home tonight. “You must be back from the beach already,” she guessed, focusing the conversation back on him. “How was it?”
The Guardian Page 8
