“Go away, bounty hunter,” Isabelle said, close to tears. The first woman to turn her completely inside out had to be inappropriate, unmanageable, and unable to make her feel better. All Holt had to do was apologize and not scare her out of her mind. That was the right thing to do. That was what a decent person would have done. But Holt asked questions instead, making it clear no one knew why her house looked like a drunken artist’s abstract connect the dots.
Without a word, Holt spun around and left the way she had come, through the back door and into the evening.
“I have a front door you know,” Isabelle called after her.
*
“You gonna tell me what happened to your face?” Moose asked when Holt slid back into the truck after leaving Isabelle’s house.
“Not at the moment. Just drive.”
While Holt was talking with Isabelle, Moose had moved to the driver’s seat of the large black truck. The person left in the car always occupied the driver’s seat when they were working. That way, if they needed a quick getaway, they were prepared. Keeping people safe was all about planning ahead.
Holt didn’t say a word as Moose drove across town to the boxing gym Holt owned. Moose always understood when she didn’t want to talk. They had been working together for ten years and had a level of unspoken communication not many people could replicate.
The encounter with Isabelle had left her cranky, horny, and confused. Her lips still burned from the wild and unexpected kiss, and her cheek smarted from the sudden assault. There was undeniable chemistry between them, but Holt knew nothing about Isabelle except that someone was shooting at her, at some point in her past she had been hit, and she had an unpredictable way of managing stress. Although getting slapped in the face was amusing, Holt didn’t like how much it had upset Isabelle. In fact, she didn’t like how much she seemed to upset Isabelle. No one liked to be unpopular. It really wasn’t any of her business who was shooting at Isabelle. She wasn’t a client, and if someone was shooting at her, it would be wiser to stay a million miles away from her than try to help her. But the idea of her being someone’s target practice made Holt’s stomach churn. It pissed her off when nice people got caught in the bad guys’ crossfire.
She grabbed her cell phone and dialed her office. Max answered.
“I need a team sitting on a house tonight. I’m sending you the details.”
When the call ended, Moose looked at Holt questioningly.
“It’s just for tonight,” Holt said. “Until I can figure out which fucking way is up. The cops will drive by a few times I’m sure, but I’d rather know our people are watching over her until the morning.”
“Does that woman know how lucky she is?” Moose asked.
Holt tilted her head, not understanding.
“Most people who slap you wake up a week later in the hospital. Unless you left her unconscious on the floor, which isn’t your style, then not only did she get away with hitting you, but now you’re protecting her as well. What’s up, H?”
“I need ten rounds. Ask me then,” Holt said, already gearing up mentally for the workout her body craved.
As a teenager, Holt found the gym a safe harbor against the turmoil in her life. The men from the first boxing gym she frequented as a teenager didn’t care that she was a girl, and they didn’t care about her race, her economics, or that she had assholes for parents. When she was in danger, they held her safe for a few hours, allowing her to regain her strength. When she was hurting, they alone understood her need to beat it out. She had gone on to become one of the most feared female fighters in the country, three times winning the women’s Golden Gloves amateur boxing tournament. If women’s boxing had been an Olympic sport when she was in her prime, she would have had medals hanging on her wall.
When she had told Isabelle she didn’t carry a gun, she failed to mention she had rarely needed one. In close quarters, there was no one in New England, male or female, who was more effective with their fists.
While she changed clothes and wrapped her hands, Moose turned on the music and started the round timer. It didn’t matter how loud the rap music pounded in the small gym, every boxer could hear the bell signaling the end of a round. He helped her into her well-loved, red, sixteen ounce, lace-up training gloves and tied them off.
“Only give me fifteen seconds rest,” Holt said. She needed to reach exhaustion quickly.
For six rounds, she pounded on the super heavyweight bag, which tipped the scales at one hundred and fifty pounds. It hung from the ceiling on a ten-foot chain, and when hit hard enough, started swaying with the rhythm of the punches. The larger men at the gym, Moose included, often struggled to move the bag more than a few inches. Today, Holt had to stay on her toes, dodging and weaving her way around the violently swinging bag.
After the heavy bag, Holt stepped under the ropes and into one of the two boxing rings, her sweat-drenched gym clothes stuck to her body. The old building housing the gym was previously used as a swimming facility, so the boxing rings were sunk deep in what used to be the pool. Holt chose the ring in the deep end. Moose stepped in the ring after her, the training mitts already on his hands.
Moose called out punch combinations and moved his targets, which looked like giant stuffed pie plates, around for Holt to seek and destroy. For three minutes at a time, they worked silently, except for Moose’s instructions. During the fifteen second rest period, they talked, one question and answer per round.
“You find out why someone was trying to kill your lady friend?”
“She slapped me, Moose,” Holt said, rubbing her gloved hand against her still tender cheek.
“I had noticed that,” he said before holding up the mitts again as the round timer chimed.
They danced and weaved around the ring for another three minutes. When the bell rang, they both leaned against the ropes and resumed their conversation.
“It’s really none of my business.” Holt wiped sweat from her forehead. “For all I know, she runs a terrorist cell and the guys shooting at her were doing us all a favor.”
“You really think she’s running a terrorist cell? What’s your gut tell you?”
“Okay, no terrorists, but she is creating some malfunction in my gut. I’m too damned hot for her.” Holt was amused for the first time since leaving Isabelle’s. “Fucking blondes.”
The bell rang and Moose held up the mitts in surrender. “I’m tired, and this is more important. She didn’t have any idea why she got shot at?”
“She yelled at me. She wanted me to apologize for bringing trouble to her doorstep. I was minding my own business, chasing Peanut, when her nutcase started shooting. But she’s convinced I’m the one the shooter was going for.”
“You were trespassing, but that’s beside the point. Look,” Moose said seriously, “you dug me out of the gutter when everyone said I was a worthless excuse for a man. You’ve got a pretty good sense of who needs saving. Let’s keep a team on her house for a while, see if anything strange turns up.”
“I don’t know if that’s good enough. Even if someone had been right outside when the shooting started, they wouldn’t have been close enough to do anything except call a rescue. Besides, she says it’s unrelated to her. Unless she’s lying, she’s probably not going to sneak off in the middle of the night and lead me right to the shooter’s door.”
“Why don’t you just go out with her then?” Moose asked. “You said she’s hot, and she likes you enough to slap you. I think you have a future.”
“She’s an accountant, Moose. I’m a bounty hunter. What kind of future could we possibly have? And is that even right? Sometimes I don’t even know where the line is anymore.”
Holt was feeling dejected, but her statement on their possible future wasn’t one of self-pity. It was an observation born from experience. Women like Isabelle didn’t have long-term relationships with women like Holt. Everybody wanted to sleep with a bad girl, but no one ever settled down with one.
; “Besides, I give it three dates, which would officially be my second longest relationship. If it’s not my job, it’s my temper. You know how much I hate putting up with women who love the idea of dating a superhero until they realize I work all the time, spend a lot of time doing paperwork, get pissed off at the wrongs in the world, and don’t own a cape.”
“Hey, she’s got balls enough to slap you. Seems like she can handle you better than most. If not, she sounds feisty, and at least the sex will be good. And how can she be mad at you for wanting to keep her safe?”
“Please don’t ever think about my sex life, me having sex, or anyone I might sleep with, ever again.”
Holt was laughing, but thinking about Isabelle as simply a quick hookup was uncomfortable. There was something different in the way she felt about this particular blonde. Although a part of her knew it was probably best to leave well enough alone, the idea of Isabelle in danger, or worse yet, riddled with buckshot, was more than she could take. What kind of self-respecting bounty hunter would let an accountant die by any means but a thousand paper cuts? She would never be able to live with the guilt if Isabelle got shot. Obviously, a peace offering was in order, and maybe another conversation about her wealthy clients. Rich people hid things, and if they made up Isabelle’s client list, she could know more than she thought. Holt hoped she was making the right decision. Particularly since she probably wouldn’t get paid for being a good guy and saving the maiden. She was also fairly sure if Isabelle ever found out she had thought of her as a maiden, a damsel in distress, a princess in peril, or any other such term, she would do more than slap Holt.
With as much bluster as she could manage, mostly for Moose’s benefit, she said, “Fuck it, you’re right. What do I have to lose? At least she’s hot.”
*
“Mr. Pence? Hello, it’s Isabelle Rochat, from CSP Financial.” Isabelle was surprised when the businessman answered her call on the first ring.
“Ah, Ms. Rochat, what can I do for you?”
Isabelle had always liked Pence’s voice. It was strong and professional, but had a gentle quality to it. Today, it didn’t. He sounded surprised to hear from her. Isabelle wished she were meeting him in person and could see his face. Decker Pence was one of her clients that was much easier to read in person, although even then he kept his expression neutral most of the time.
“One of your employees sent over a file earlier in the week. I spoke with your bookkeeper, Gary, I believe his name is, and I offered to take over a larger part of the audit, but I am afraid the file must be a mistake. It doesn’t make sense. I tried to call your secretary, but she was unavailable.” Isabelle had pored over the files after Holt left, and she still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling something was off.
“Ms. Rochat, I am sorry for the inconvenience. I will make sure the proper file arrives this afternoon. My secretary unfortunately no longer works here, and perhaps this incident gives you an indication why. I will take care of it. Thank you for calling me,” Pence said a little too quickly.
“Do you know what the file was? It was full of silly line items like sports teams and bubbles, but it looked like very technical accounting.”
“I do not know, Ms. Rochat. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a file quite like that. Perhaps it is one that Gary was using to train his new assistant. If you wouldn’t mind deleting that file, I’ll make sure this is the only time you are bothered by a mix-up.”
Pence sounded relieved.
“Mr. Pence, I’m happy to provide any additional services you need. I know you have a bookkeeper, but if it’s easier, I can take over a more active role in the finances of your company. Or my company offers many other services such as financial planning and business management, precisely for clients such as yourself.” Although what she said was all true, there was something about Pence’s voice that was unsettling her. She wanted a closer look at his total finances.
“Ms. Rochat, I am satisfied with our current professional arrangement and the services you offer. Please delete the file and continue to work on whatever parts of the audit you and Gary have discussed. I will ensure you receive the correct file this afternoon.”
Pence’s voice had lost any of the charm Isabelle had once detected. He sounded cold and more than a little scary. Isabelle had a flash of Decker Pence in a ski mask with a shotgun, but she pushed it away. The man was well known in the community. He was probably just embarrassed by such an error by one of his staff.
“Of course, Mr. Pence. If your bookkeeper has further questions about the file I requested, please have him give me a call.” She wasn’t ready to delete the file. There was something that still didn’t seem right.
After she hung up the phone, she wandered to the kitchen and stared at Holt’s card on the fridge. Was this the kind of thing she could help with? Isabelle quickly shook off the thought. Help with what? She had no idea what she was looking for, or if there was anything to find. She couldn’t explain to herself the cause of her concern, much less to Holt. The file was made-up names and gibberish. Besides, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to see her again. She decided it was best if she kept this to herself. If anything changed, she could call then.
*
“Gary, you stupid fuck,” Decker yelled into the phone at his moronic underling. “She thinks your bookkeeping code is as stupid as I do. You could have gotten those files back, or let her keep it and she would have forgotten about it, but you shot at her instead. Now she’s asking questions.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I didn’t know, but that it was probably a file you used to train your assistant. I told her to delete it and get back to work. I wish I could delete you.”
“Did she figure it out? Does she know anything?” Gary’s voice had taken on a quaver, most likely from visions of what Pence would do to him if Isabelle was going to expose them. Decker was picturing them himself.
“I don’t think so. She said the file made no sense. I guess it’s good you still use those inane codes. They’re finally paying off.”
“I told you an extra layer of security was a good idea, Decker. She’ll never crack that code.”
“Security is a password or encryption, Gary, and before you congratulate yourself on your Fort Knox of bookkeeping, I don’t think she is going to do the smart thing and rid herself of that file. At the first sign of trouble, you will have to get it back, carefully.”
“I’m always careful. But computer files aren’t like paper files. She could have copies in twelve different places, not to mention her e-mail. I’m not a hacker.”
“Yes, the police tape and buckshot attest to your discretion.” Decker had his voice under control again. “I don’t care how you recover those files, if and when I ask you to. That is one of the reasons I pay you as much as I do, and we both know how well my money was spent last time you thought for yourself. But if she thinks she’s being targeted, she’s going to dig deeper.”
“I trust my code. The code’s safe. She can’t break it.”
“For your sake, I hope so.”
Chapter Four
Holt shifted from one foot to the other. Once again, she was standing at Isabelle’s back door, this time ready to knock and fall on her sword. Isabelle needed an apology, and Holt was willing to give her one, even if she hadn’t done anything wrong. Lying as part of her job wasn’t something she enjoyed, but it was necessary from time to time. She had debated for three days the best way to get Isabelle to like her again and was shocked to realize just how much it bothered her that she cared about it at all.
“No guts, no glory,” she said as she tapped gently on the sliding glass door.
Anxiety oozed from Isabelle as she peeked around the corner. Holt felt bad for startling her again. Quickly though, the fear was replaced by exasperation. The sliding door grated open and Isabelle dragged Holt by her shirt collar into the house, through the living room, out the front door, and deposi
ted her on the front stoop.
When the door slammed in her face, she assumed Isabelle wasn’t in a forgiving mood, until she heard her shout from inside the house. “Use the damned doorbell like a normal person.”
“Really?” Holt asked. She could see Isabelle through the glass side panels flanking the front door. Isabelle pointed at the doorbell. She was surprised to see Isabelle jump when she complied.
The door opened quickly and Holt and Isabelle stared at each other. Holt could see how conflicted Isabelle was. Her body language was guarded, but her expression was more relieved than irritated.
“May I come in?” Holt asked, ready to duck should Isabelle decide to slap her again. After Isabelle’s reaction, she got the feeling that would never happen again. In her line of work, it never hurt to be prepared, though.
“Oh, damn it all to hell,” Isabelle said. She grabbed Holt by the hand and pulled her inside.
“Hi,” Holt said, liking the way Isabelle’s hand felt in hers. She gave herself a few luxurious seconds to stare at her. She saw Isabelle’s warring emotions and took strength from the fact that Isabelle seemed to be having a hard time disliking her. That had to count a little in her favor.
“Can I help you with something?” Isabelle asked, dropping her grip on Holt’s hand and rubbing the exposed skin as if she had been shocked.
Holt took a deep breath and plunged ahead. Now was her moment. “I wanted to see you.” She had meant to say she wanted to see how Isabelle was, but her mouth betrayed her. “And apologize,” she added quickly.
“Did you stop and consider that maybe I didn’t want to see you? It’s so much easier to pretend you’re some kind of scary monster when you’re not around. When you’re standing in front of me, you’re cute, and nervous, and sweet, and only a little scary.”
The Chase Page 4
