Tough As Nails

by Jackie Manning

  “Have you heard from hospital security?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation back on track.

  “By the time we get back to the Crib, Erickson should be awake,” Mike answered. “I’ll call him to see if there’s anything new on the case.”

  To see if Leonard Braewood was caught, Mike meant, but she didn’t correct him. She had taken his suggestion not to think about the stalker and it had worked. Although she’d felt more relaxed concerning Braewood, her nervousness was replaced with increasing sexual tension. She caught a trace of his aftershave. The scent jolted her senses.

  Dammit, what was the matter with her? She was long over her ex-husband, so why was she reacting to him like a teenager on her first date?

  She couldn’t even take comfort that Mike had been as aroused as she last night. He’d made it perfectly clear that their arrangement could include sleeping together as an added benefit for them both. But she’d seen from her practice, over and over again, how rejected spouses wanted their mates back, not for love but because they mistakenly believed if they regained their ex-partners, they would feel whole again. Mike didn’t love her, although he might think he did. She was just another challenge.

  She shoved her sweatband in place and forced her attention on the stately brownstones nestled between neatly clipped lawns. Petunias, begonias and impatiens splashed color from planters and window boxes. A dog barked from behind a fence. Church bells chimed for six o’clock mass. Baskets of cascading flowers hung from wrought-iron yard posts.

  Block after block, the steady rhythm of their shoes striking pavement lulled her into an edgy peace. Acutely aware of Mike beside her, she could almost forget, for the moment, that Leonard Braewood was obsessed with her.

  Several blocks later, Mike wasn’t even breathing hard when she paused to catch her breath. Running in place, she took a swig from her water bottle. “You’re in great shape,” he said, his gaze assessing her. “Work out every day?”

  “Never miss. There’s a gym near my apartment building.”

  His face grew serious. “Keeping to a strict schedule makes it easy for someone to track your whereabouts.”

  She screwed the cap back on the bottle. “I’ve already thought of that. Guess I’ve been an easy mark for the stalker.”

  “I thought later today, if you’re feeling up to it, I’d ask you some more questions. I’ll need to know the names of the people you come into contact with during your everyday activities.”

  “I gave you my appointment book from the office.”

  “That’s a start, but I need the nonbusiness things, too.”

  My personal life, she thought. He’d soon know there was no man in her life. Not since Jordan. “Okay,” she said, knowing that having to confess to her ex-husband that she hadn’t had sex in two years was anything but okay.

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Worked up an appetite? The Waffle House will be opening soon. If we head back now, we’ll be just in time to beat the morning crowd.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Brianna stood on the Crib’s sun-roof terrace and helo pad, and gazed along the shores of the East River. The morning sun sparkled on the waters and shimmered off the streaming traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge that spanned Manhattan and Brooklyn. She hugged herself contentedly as she studied the rooftops and chimneys and church spires and belfries. If only the city were as safe and beautiful as it looked from this vantage point, she thought.

  Behind her, Mike’s cell phone rang. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Seated at the patio lounge chair, his sun-browned, powerful legs stretched out in front of him, Mike reached for the phone, never taking his gaze from the laptop balanced on his knee.

  His thick dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he listened. She held her breath, wondering if it was news from Erickson. Mike had called him earlier when they’d returned from their run. Erickson hadn’t answered, but Mike had left word on his answering machine. Maybe Leonard Braewood had been caught.

  Mike glanced up at her, and as though guessing her thoughts, shook his head. “It’s Liam calling from your apartment,” he said. “He’s almost finished with the sweep. So far, he hasn’t found any bugs.” Although his smile was meant to reassure her, she took little comfort in it.

  “Why would the stalker need to bug my apartment? You already said that Liam found a tracking device installed in my car. Who knows how long it’s been there.” The anger and cynicism she felt surprised her. Maybe one of her clients was the stalker’s interest, and not her? Dear God, who knows?

  Mike laughed, the sound distracting her from her thoughts. She watched him tap on the computer, his deeply tanned hand cradling the phone to his ear. After their run, he’d showered and changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, similar to the one he’d worn Thursday, when she’d walked into his office after seven years. Had it been only three days ago? God, it seemed as if those seven years they’d been apart had never happened.

  She shook her head at her foolishness. I’ve been out in the sun too long, she decided. Taking a seat beside him at the umbrella table, she picked up her microrecorder. Sliding one foot out of her leather sandal, she crossed her bare leg as she sifted through the client folders she had stacked neatly in front of her.

  Just then, Mike hung up and looked down at her pink toenails. “I’ve got another call to make,” he said, his gaze on her foot. “If you want to dictate, I can make the call from downstairs and not bother you.”

  “No need,” she said, sitting up straight and sliding her foot back into the sandal. “I have to catch up on notes for a court appearance tomorrow. I’m testifying for a mother whose spouse was trying to gain custody of their son.” She opened a client folder. “If Liam is through with the sweep, I’d like to pick up a few more things from my apartment later,” she added.

  “How about now?” Mike tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard then closed the lid. “We’ll take the car.”

  She put down her microrecorder and leaned back in the chair. “Car?” she couldn’t hold back the surprise from her voice. “I didn’t know you owned a car.” Few people who lived in Manhattan owned cars, with the available city transportation. Besides, he’d never mentioned owning a car.

  “Sure. Thought we’d take a drive after lunch.”

  “Where to?” A thread of worry coursed over her. “Did Liam say something to spur this trip?”

  “No, this is something I’d already planned. Thought we’d drive out to New Jersey and pay a visit to your colleague, Dr. Cunningham.”

  She sat up. “Larry?” She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “What’s so important that you want to bother Larry on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “Want to ask him some questions. Thought it would seem friendlier to visit him on his own turf.”

  She gave him a thin smile. “You mean if Larry’s relaxed, he might let something slip?”

  His mouth quirked. “Are you always so suspicious?”

  She grinned. “I’m beginning to think that you do very little on the spur of the moment. What do you really want from Larry?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think your friend Larry is the stalker.”

  “Quit calling him my friend.” She slid the microrecorder back into its case and snapped the lid shut. “I told you there’s nothing between Larry and me.”

  “I believe you.”

  You do? She felt a sting of disappointment, then immediately mentally chastised herself for her foolishness. “I’m glad,” she said, hoping he believed her.

  His slight grin revealed nothing as he jotted a few notes on the pad in his lap.

  “I wanted to call Larry,” she said. “It’s time I told him about the photographs and the stalker.”

  “Good idea.” Mike picked up his cell phone. “I’ll call Erickson again. His phone didn’t ring when I tried him earlier.”

  A wave of restlessness caused her to push away from the table and get to her feet. If Erickson had found
any information, he would have called by now.

  While Mike waited for Erickson’s phone to answer, she stood beside him, bracing herself for further disappointment.

  “MIKE. I was just about to call you,” Erickson said, his tone no-nonsense.

  “Any word on Leonard Braewood?” Mike asked.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. But something came up that puzzles me.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Yesterday, when I arrived on the sixth floor, a priest and a moving man were waiting at the elevators. The moving man, Gary Hershall, said that the priest had just arrived before I got there.”

  “So?”

  “Hershall said that he thought it was weird to see a priest. The patients had been relocated from the floor last week.”

  “So? Maybe he was lost.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he said.”

  “What was the priest like?” Mike asked.

  “Friendly. Spoke with a slight Irish brogue. Said he was visiting a patient, but that he’d gotten off on the wrong floor.”

  “It’s possible. Did you get his name?”

  “Father Patrick Halloran from St. Michael’s. And Mike, I just got the police report this morning. There’s no priest by that name at St. Michael’s.”

  “SO WHY WOULD the priest give a false name?” Brianna asked a short while later after Mike had filled her in on Erickson’s phone call. They were on their way to her apartment to pick up some more of her things, then head for Larry Cunningham’s home in New Jersey.

  Mike watched her adjust her seat belt, and lean her head against the passenger headrest. He turned the Escalade SUV left onto Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard, then glanced back at her. She’d changed from denim shorts and T-shirt into a yellow sundress that turned her eyes into pools of greenish gold. The simple cut of the dress exposed her back, showing off her smooth tanned skin, recalling erotic memories that he’d spent years trying to forget.

  Damn, he’d never find the stalker if he kept thinking about what it would be like to get his ex-wife into bed. He forced his attention back on her question.

  “Before I decide that the priest was using a false name, I want to rerun the name through the databanks myself. Maybe Erickson spelled the name wrong.”

  Her eyes rounded as she studied him. “You don’t believe that,” she said, her hands clenched in her lap. “Please, Mike, don’t try to placate me. If you know something, I want to know it, too.”

  “I’m not holding anything back,” he said, relaxing his hands on the wheel. “I’ve always admired the way you forgo hand-wringing and just handle the problem. But in this case, we need facts. And getting facts takes time.” He looked at her and smiled. “Patience has never been one of your strong points.”

  Her look of surprise, then hurt, took him off guard. Then he realized that she might have thought he was referring to their marriage. She had not waited very long before filing for divorce.

  “Maybe that’s the difference between us,” she said finally. “I don’t believe in waiting around for a lost cause.”

  He felt the jab, but realized that her irritation was an attempt to hide the vulnerability he knew she must feel, and it hitched up his protective instincts a notch.

  She closed her eyes then opened them. “I’m sorry, Mike. I—I didn’t mean to say that.” She leaned over and brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. She’d barely touched him and the jolt to his system felt like a thunderbolt.

  “No apology needed. And you’re right. Let’s talk about all of this tomorrow.” The color that her temper had brought to her cheeks was fading.

  “By then, we’ll have the copies of the forensic artist’s sketches from the description Erickson gave of the priest,” he said, his gaze straight ahead. “For now, try to put this out of your mind.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m not like you. I can’t just put unpleasantness out of my mind. I saw him, Mike. Those eyes, so full of hate.”

  His hands clenched the wheel. Damn, he didn’t know when he’d felt so helpless. Ever since Erickson had told him about the priest, Mike couldn’t get a crazy thought out of his mind. What if the stalker and the priest were the same man?

  What if the stalker had checked out the hospital beforehand and known the sixth-floor patients and staff had been evacuated? He could have easily stashed a disguise earlier, planning to make his getaway. If so, then the stalker was a lot more dangerous than he’d first thought. Lots of ex-military men could get their hands on black-market, cutting-edge security equipment. But the kind of mind who had schemed to lure Brianna to the hospital by impersonating an E.R. doctor, then eluding hospital security and him…

  She looked out the window as he turned off the ramp and merged onto Center Street. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” she said softly. She turned and looked at him, her eyes troubled.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” he said, hoping to God that this was a promise he could keep.

  “THAT ABOUT DOES IT,” Brianna said as she rummaged through the garments hanging in the walk-in closet of her bedroom.

  “Want me to close the lid?” Mike asked, noticing how neat and organized she had packed her suitcase.

  “Thanks, Mike, but I can do it myself.” She stepped back and pointed to a Pullman case on the top closet shelf. “I’d appreciate it if you could reach that bag for me.”

  He moved beside her and lifted the luggage with no effort. His gaze fell to several bathing suits hanging on the closet rod. “TALON-6 has a pool and an exercise room. You might want to bring along a suit.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’d like that. I’ll miss my workouts, unless you want to accompany me to the gym each morning.” She couldn’t quite hide a smile.

  “I won’t rule it out. I’d like to ask the staff at the gym a few questions.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mike, you can’t be serious.” Despite her casual tone, he saw her mouth tighten.

  She took a black-and-white striped swimsuit and put it in her suitcase. Mike noticed a black lacy nightgown hanging on a padded hanger. He picked it from the rod. “Hmm. This might be something you’ll need,” he said, teasing.

  A grin replaced her worried frown. “Oh, you think so, huh?”

  “Definitely.”

  She moved to the closet and pulled a white, fuzzy terry-cloth bathrobe from a hook. “This is my favorite,” she said with a grin. “Glad you reminded me. I almost forgot to pack it.”

  HE GRIPPED THE TONGS and carefully removed the photograph from the developing solution. In the darkroom’s soft red light, he sneered at the image of the smiling teenager, caught with his telescopic lens, so unaware.

  Freaky thing, with her nose rings, black lipstick and bands of color in her spiked hair. Just the sort of subcreature the bitch would take under her wing.

  A quiver of excitement shot through him when he thought of how the bitch would react when she saw the photo. Her eyes would round in fear. Her face would drain of blood. She might even cry out.

  But she had no idea of real terror. Soon, very soon, she would know what real horror felt like.

  He slipped the proof into the stop bath, agitating it a few seconds. She thinks she’s safe. Good. But she can’t protect all of her flock. She’ll drop her guard, then she’ll come running, right into my trap.

  Chapter Nine

  “If you don’t believe Larry is a suspect, why do you want to interrogate him?” Brianna asked once they were settled inside Mike’s SUV, heading north along the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Mike glanced at her. She was wearing designer sunglasses, and the amber lenses couldn’t quite hide the distrust in her eyes. He could see that she didn’t entirely believe that he didn’t consider Larry a suspect. “Let’s just say I want to be sure Larry doesn’t know something that might help us. For instance, he might have seen something or someone and not thought it out of the ordinary at the time. I also want to watch his reactions.”

  “Reactions to what?” A ring of doubt st
ill hung on her words.

  His reactions to you, Brianna, but Mike kept the thought to himself. Whatever the relationship between Brianna and Cunningham, Mike sensed that she trusted Cunningham, and that was reason enough for her to be protective of him. For a fleeting moment he envied Cunningham that. She was a tigress when defending her friends and those close to her.

  You’re letting your feelings get in the way, Landis, he warned himself. Keep this professional, remember?

  “Are you going to tell me what you meant, or are we playing Twenty Questions?”

  “Sorry.” He kept his eyes on the road as he pulled the Escalade into the far lane to pass an oil truck. “You can tell a lot about people by the way they react. That’s all I meant.” He gave her a quick glance. She was studying him and he knew she wasn’t completely convinced. “I don’t think Cunningham is the stalker. But I want to be sure that the stalker isn’t using him to gain information about you.”

  After a long moment, she nodded. “I see.”

  He glanced into the rearview mirror then at her before bringing his eyes back to the road. She had leaned back and folded her hands on top of the client files she’d brought to work on while they drove to Cunningham’s house. Mike figured she’d brought the work as an excuse to insulate herself from any further intimate exchange with him. Especially after their limousine ride from the Plaza last night.

  A heat rose in him at the memory of that kiss, but he pushed it back. He’d made a hell of a lot of mistakes in his life and kissing her was about as foolish as they came. He remembered a definition of insanity that he’d heard somewhere. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Yeah, he was certainly insane when it came to his ex-wife. What the hell did he expect would happen if he kept kissing her? He was one crazy fool.

  He stole another glance at her. She was staring out the side window, deep in thought. He marveled again at her natural look. With her face free of makeup and her hair swept back in a banana clip, she looked no older than a teenager, especially when she lowered her lids in that guileless way. A few silvery-blond tendrils escaped her hair clip; the draft from the air conditioner bounced the errant tendrils around her slightly flushed cheeks.