Dark of Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I'm sure there's a lot I don't know,” Tracy agreed, clearing her dishes, too. “But I think you should consider bringing both Sophia and Dave into the loop, before this thing between them goes too far.”

  Before? “Word is, he's moved in with her.”

  “That's just sex,” Tracy scoffed. “He hasn't moved in moved in. He's just getting his happy on every chance he can get, and— Look at you. Don't get all uncomfortable, like you're living in some G-rated world where all they're doing is holding hands and chastely kissing good night. That could've been you, twirling her around her bedroom every night— and you know it. She gave you the green light for years.”

  “You better go pack,” he said, because this conversation had gotten completely out of hand. Plus, he was still slightly aroused, which was freaking him out, because in the past all it took was the thought of Sophia and the horror that she'd been through—the murder of her husband, her captivity in Kazabek, her abuse at Decker's own ignorant hand—to exorcise any errant, inappropriate sexual cravings.

  Tracy didn't leave the kitchen. Instead she walked over to the wall phone, heavy on the attitude, which, again, really worked with those jeans. She picked it up, and when he moved to stop her, she shot him a get real look. “I'm just ordering you a pizza,” she told him, “so you don't fade away from lack of carbs.” She squinted her eyes at him, as if trying to read his mind. Or to remember the type of pizza he always asked for whenever the crew at TS Inc. put in a late night. “What are you, pepperoni, with black olives and … ?”

  “Mushrooms.” Decker nodded. “Thank you.”

  She placed the order, hung up the phone. “It'll be here in ten minutes. They always say twenty, but they're right up the street.”

  She vanished down the hall to the bathroom, but was back in a flash, waving giant green George at him, which was an image he really didn't want lingering in his brain, thanks—a dick of any kind or color in those smooth, well-manicured hands.

  “Don't want to forget my boyfriend,” she announced, and went into her room to pack.

  As he'd eaten that pizza, she'd filled two very large suitcases. But Decker had bitten his tongue rather than chastise her or even mock her, because really? Traveling light wasn't a priority here. They would be driving the six hours to the safe house. Let her take as much as she wanted.

  She'd left her door ajar as she went to bed, as he'd stared at the ceiling from his vantage point on the couch. He'd slept only lightly, with one eye open, listening for any sound or movement from Tracy. The fact of the matter was that he did trust her. If he didn't, he wouldn't have slept at all.

  What he didn't trust was that she wouldn't make a mistake and inadvertently blow Nash's cover.

  So this morning, he'd lugged her luggage out to the back of his truck, locked the cargo cover down, and—without any additional talk of green dildos, thank you, Jesus—they were finally on their way.

  They'd stopped, briefly, at his apartment, to pick up his bag—one and small—because his intention was to spend a few days at the safe house, goading Nash into starting his physical therapy.

  Decker and Tracy were just a few blocks from his place, heading for the 5, when she spotted the Starbucks.

  “Ooh. Ooh, ooh,” she'd said. “Last chance at civilization.”

  “We're not going to the moon.” But he'd pulled into the lot, because why the hell not. Because the truth here was that she was going to jail. And yes, the safe house was luxurious and spacious with its swimming pool and gorgeous views. But once there, Tracy wouldn't be able to leave.

  It wasn't going to be as bad as getting locked in a basement by a psychopath, which was something that had happened to Tracy a few years back, right after she'd started working for TS Inc. Decker knew that after that experience, the idea of being locked anywhere had to be difficult. And yet, here she was.

  Trusting him completely.

  He followed her now to the counter, where she ordered for both of them. Which made sense, just like with last night's pizza. As Troubleshoot-ers receptionist, Tracy had been called on often to pick up a Starbucks order, on those days when regular coffee just wouldn't cut it. Still, she must've noticed his surprise, because she glanced at him. And then smiled.

  “You have no clue that you order the exact same thing every time, do you?” she said.

  What? “No, I don't.”

  “Yes, you do. And it's pretty boring, too. Medium roast, grande, black.”

  “Sometimes,” Decker said, a tad defensively, “I have a scone.”

  Tracy laughed as she held up a little bag that the barista had handed her. “Honey” she said, using the not-very-PC nickname that slipped out of him from time to time when he spoke to women, especially those whom he found appealing, “you always have a scone.”

  Jesus, she was nicely put together, and as Decker laughed his acknowledgment of his own mundane-ness, their gazes held and sparked, and there it was again, that fricking heat that, for years, he'd worked overtime to ignore. Not just with Tracy, but with everyone. He'd met quite a few attractive women since Khobar, since his fiancée Emily had become his ex-fiancée. But after learning his lesson the hard way, he'd always backed away.

  Maybe he was tired from that night of little-to-no sleep, tossing on her freaking uncomfortable sofa, worried about the way that, despite his best efforts, the number of people who knew about Nash was growing. And he knew it was a mistake, but this time, here in the safety of Starbucks, when that connection sparked between them, he didn't immediately look away.

  Instead, he let himself take the briefest of moments—three short seconds of fantasy—to pretend that he actually had a real life, and that those suitcases in the back of his truck were there for a different reason. Such as he and this gorgeous young woman were going to spend a few days at a rustic B&B, where they wouldn't get out of bed until it was time to come back home.

  Which was pretty much the way his relationship with Em had started. With nonstop sex. Next thing he knew, they were visiting an animal shelter and adopting a dog.

  And then she was moving out, taking Ranger with her.

  Here and now, Tracy looked away first, flustered, and Decker knew with a flash of insight that he was playing with fire. She was his for the taking, which, okay, was an extremely egotistical thought, but that didn't make it any less true.

  Like him, she was starved for contact with someone—anyone. Old George just wasn't getting the job done. But if Decker thought his breakup with Emily had been messy, anything he started here and now would surely end in a bloodbath.

  So he looked away, shifted his position, and shut down any body-language Yes, ma'am, I would absolutely love to fuck you's he might've been sending her.

  But Tracy apparently didn't get that memo. “One of these days,” she told him, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes, “you're going to have to take a chance and try one of their blueberry muffins.”

  And yeah, he wasn't just playing with fire here, he was playing with a live nuke.

  When they got back into his truck, he was going to have to go point-blank. I have to be honest here, honey, because I find you incredibly attractive, and every now and then I slip and it leaks out, but you need to know that I will never, ever act upon it. Even if I didn't have a multitude of other women on my mind—for a variety of reasons—I would never fraternize. I would never have a relationship with someone I work with, let alone someone like you, who might be perceived to be a subordinate. “It's not my thing,” he told her now.

  “And a scone is?” she countered. “You know, I tried one once? And it was kind of like eating a spoonful of flour. Except maybe not as flavorful.”

  The barista interrupted them by handing them their coffees, and Decker dug into his pocket for his wallet.

  Tracy stopped him, a cool hand on his arm. A hand she let linger there, sweet Jesus save him. “I paid when I ordered.”

  How the hell had he missed that? He stepped back, which shook her hand free, and
took his wallet out anyway. “Let me pay you back.”

  “Not necessary,” Tracy said. “You are, after all, paying my rent.”

  “Lawrence Decker, what a surprise.”

  Deck recognized the voice and turned, and sure enough—holy fuck—it was Jo Heissman standing there. And the world went into high definition as he slammed to full alert, Defcon Two—launch codes out and ready.

  Dr. Josephine Heissman. Shrinker of heads. A specialist in PTSD, she'd worked with counterterrorism operatives throughout her extensive career—a career that included an extended stint working for the Agency.

  The very same Agency which may or may not have been behind the attempts to erase Jim Nash from the face of this planet.

  The doctor was looking from him to Tracy, speculation on her far-too-intelligent face. “And … Tracy Shapiro, right?” She held out her hand for Tracy to shake.

  Tracy did just that, a smile of real pleasure lighting her face. “How are you, Dr. Heissman?”

  “I'm fine, thank you,” the older woman said. “I have an appointment down the street, and …” She gestured to the room around them. “Gotta have that morning java jolt.”

  This was not a coincidence.

  It couldn't be.

  It wasn't.

  Jo Heissman had worked as psychological support at Troubleshooters Incorporated for a very brief time, right before Nash had “died.” Upon news of his death, she'd immediately resigned.

  Decker had been nearly certain that the doctor had maintained her Agency ties. He'd suspected, but had never proven, that she'd taken the job with TS Inc. in order to spy on Nash for her real bosses—the Agency masters to whom Deck was sure she was still a minion.

  When he'd confronted her, she'd claimed she'd taken the TS Inc. position, with its significantly lower salary, because she was doing a study and writing some paper dealing with the mental health of counterterrorism operatives.

  But the bottom line was this: Nash had “died,” and she'd left.

  Decker didn't think that was a coincidence, either.

  His mind raced as he played back his conversation with Tracy. What had the doctor overheard? What had she seen?

  As a psychologist—and not just any psychologist, but his psychologist, who'd crawled around inside of his remarkably fucked-up and noisy head for a number of intense sessions—she could surely read his body language. And for a few seconds there, he'd put his attraction to Tracy on a platter for the entire world to see.

  But he was both human and male. It could be argued that any hetero man—even those in committed relationships with their dead best friends’ fiancées—would have to be both blind and three years without a pulse not to find Tracy steaming hot.

  It was the words the receptionist had said that were going to be the problem. You are, after all, paying my rent.

  Deck had to assume Dr. Heissman had heard that. And he also had to assume that the doctor had followed them here—from his apartment.

  She'd no doubt been waiting there, staking the place out.

  What he didn't know was why.

  Not why she would follow him—he was pretty certain it was to see if she could find out any information that would convince her masters that Nash truly was dead.

  He couldn't figure out, though, why she would follow him only to reveal that she was doing so, here in this Starbucks.

  “Things have been really slow at the office,” Tracy told Jo, in that easy way some women had of instantly reviving lapsed friendships, as if it had been days rather than months since she'd last seen the older woman. “It's been quiet and … well, ever since Jimmy passed, it's …” She made a face as if shaking off her maudlin emotions. “Everyone's taking vacations and even lost time, to, you know, deal with the loss.”

  “It's natural to want to step back a bit,” Dr. Heissman agreed, glancing at Decker. She was wearing her hair down around her shoulders—hippie hair, Dave Malkoff had called it. It was long and thick and obviously its natural color, with streaks of unhidden gray among the rich darkness. She dressed to match it, in loose, colorful, flowing clothes. A gauzy tunic with dark, wide-legged pants, flat sandals on her feet, a small leather backpack over her shoulder in place of a handbag.

  She looked a little pale, a little gaunt, and she glanced over her shoulder when the door to the coffee shop opened, which was a classic signal that she was afraid someone had followed her. Which didn't make sense.

  Of course, the fact that she herself had followed Decker here didn't make any sense, either. She was truly skilled as a head-shrinker, but as a covert operative sent to tail a professional… ? She was seriously lacking.

  Not that he'd spotted her car following his truck before he'd pulled into the Starbucks lot. But he would have, given enough time. Certainly before he'd gotten onto the 5. Thirty seconds of mildly evasive driving, and he would've been able to shake her, no question.

  “I hope you're doing the same,” the doc was saying to him. “Taking some time … ?”

  But he didn't have to answer, because Tracy was there, ready to intercept the conversational ball. “Everyone's bringing it down a notch,” she told the doctor. “I'm taking a full month, myself. I have a friend who just had a baby—her second—and she could really use help with Mikey; he's barely two. So I'm going to her place—to celebrate new life, you know? It seems, like, perfect. I mean, considering.”

  The doctor nodded, but Tracy didn't let her speak.

  “Chica, my friend, well, that's her nickname from high school —her high school; I didn't meet her until college—she's got limited parking at her townhouse, so Deck's giving me a ride over there. He's also helping me out by subletting my apartment.” She turned to look at him, with such an expression of concerned appreciation that he nearly smiled. She lowered her voice slightly as she turned back to Dr. Heissman, as if conveying a secret. “He's going to clear all of Jimmy's clothes and things out of their place—we were neighbors, you know, same apartment building—and then Tess is going to move back in. On her own timetable, of course. We just thought”—she looked at Decker again, including him in that we— “it would be easier for her, if Decker were living upstairs, in my place. He didn't want to just, you know, move in with her. Too many ghosts. Plus, it's too soon—at least some people think so. And you know the way everyone talks. Tess doesn't need that. Neither of them do.”

  She was brilliant. She'd explained the words Dr. Heissman had overheard, and she'd given the two of them a reason to be here, in this Starbucks together.

  “How is Tess?” the doc asked, addressing Decker.

  He gave her his stock answer. “She's hanging in.”

  Again Tracy took the ball and hit a perfect, clean serve. “So what are you up to these days, Jo?”

  What was she up to, indeed?

  Decker got another glance from behind the doctor's trendy, rectangular-shaped glasses before she turned her attention back to Tracy.

  “I've been establishing a solo practice,” she answered. “And doing a lot of volunteer work at the VA downtown. I'll be over there for most of the day. I probably won't get to my own office until, oh, three thirty or four.”

  And wasn't she the angel of all that was good?

  “I have a patient who was recently released, whose parents live a few blocks from here,” she continued, apparently determined to tell them her entire schedule for the day. “I'll be working with him for a couple of hours this morning, before I hit the hospital.”

  “A house call,” Decker commented. “That seems… unusual.”

  She smiled, albeit sadly. “Unusual measures for unusual times. This patient is a triple amputee. Iraq War vet. PTSD.” She looked at Decker, her gaze almost palpable. “A high suicide risk.”

  “I once told Dr. H. that I was thinking about killing myself,” Decker told Tracy. “In case you were wondering about that loaded look she just shot me.”

  He'd rendered them both speechless, which was quite the trick considering they were both conv
ersational black belts.

  “Why are you here, Doctor?” he asked her quietly, taking care not to draw attention with either his voice or his body language. He kept his shoulders loose, his arms held non-threateningly, a pleasant smile pasted on his face. His words, however, were anything but. “What the fuck do you want?”

  He'd caught her off-guard, the muscles in her throat working as she nervously swallowed, as she took several steps back from him. Although it was entirely possible that all of it—including her peaked look and the way she'd glanced over her shoulder at the door—was just one big act.

  “Nothing,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, but he could tell she was lying. “I just saw you come in as I was driving by and … I thought I'd stop and say hello.”

  “Well, you said it,” Decker said. He looked at Tracy, who was clinging, wide-eyed, to her Venti Latte as if it were a life preserver. Enough of this bullshit. “We don't want to keep Chica, Mikey, and the new baby waiting.”

  Tracy didn't move, so he reached to push her slightly, to steer her toward the door, and yeah, both her skin and her shirt were decadently soft to the touch.

  They'd barely even turned when Dr. Heissman stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I'm sorry if I upset you,” she told him. “That wasn't my intention.”

  “We really have to go.” He looked pointedly down at her hand and she quickly pulled it back.

  But apparently she still had more to say. “Wait, I want to give you one of my new business cards.” She pulled one out of thin air—she must've had it in her pocket—and held it out to him. “In case you ever need to, you know, reach me?”

  There was no way he was taking that. There was not and would never be a single reason he would need to “reach” her.

  But before he could tell her to go fuck herself, Tracy played intermediary. She snatched the card from the doctor, and cheerily called, “Nice seeing you, Jo,” as she grabbed Decker by the elbow and all but pulled him out the door.