Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  “Blue,” she said, looking at his eyes. “Baby blue.”

  He slowly turned his head her way. “Excuse me?”

  “Um . . . blue. It’s my favorite color,” she hedged, but found herself grinning when she realized she’d spoken aloud. “What’s yours?”

  He grunted. “Camo.”

  He did have a way of making her smile. “Favorite song.”

  He rolled his eyes. “ ‘Take Me, Baby.’ ”

  She chuckled when he named her current chart single. “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay, fine. Anything by Toby Keith,” he finally admitted grudgingly.

  “Ah. I knew you were a country fan. Don’t much like rock, do you?”

  He bit his lower lip, like he was biting back the urge to tell her to back the hell off. “Do I lose chow privileges if I say no?”

  A funny guy, her bodyguard. “Okay. Forget that question. I can guess the answer anyway. Let’s see. Who’s been the most influential person in your life?”

  He hesitated. Swallowed. And stared straight ahead. “My brother.”

  There was way more emotion in his answer than two words should have held. More than she thought she wanted to deal with. At least not today. Someday, she’d ask. Maybe. But not today.

  “I like to roller-skate. How about you? Ever roller-skated, Wilson?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” he said after a long silence that spoke volumes about what he must be thinking about her mental state.

  “Too busy . . . doing what, back in Iowa?”

  “Sorting the hayseed out of my pockets, ma’am,” he said with such a put-upon scowl that she knew she was driving him nuts.

  She hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

  “You make me homesick for my dogs. And my cat.”

  He cocked his head, then shook it.

  “Oh . . . no.” She laughed at his “what the hell are you talking about” look. “That didn’t come out right. Let me try again. I haven’t seen them for a while—what with the tour and all. And now I’m thinking—wondering, I guess, how long it’s been since you’ve been home. Wondering if maybe you get homesick for Iowa. And now I realize I’m a little homesick for my guys. The dogs,” she clarified when he looked at her like he wished he had a gag.

  Okay. It was time to take pity. “Do you play gin?”

  Slowly, he shook his head, clearly lost by her mercurial switch of topics. “Do you have A.D.D. or something?”

  Real funny guy. “Just letting you off the hook, since you obviously aren’t comfortable getting up close and personal.”

  “I’ll ask the flight attendant for a deck of cards,” he said, grabbing onto her offer like it was a lifeline.

  11

  Jase was in a foul mood by the time they made their connection in Memphis for a short flight into Tupelo that afternoon. His concentration was for shit. He’d gotten his sorry butt whipped in three straight games of gin because of it. And losing did not set well. He didn’t like to lose at anything.

  Finally, thank God, she said she was tired, reclined in her seat, and fell asleep.

  Jase spent the rest of the four-and-a-half-hour trip in clench-jawed silence, feeling like he’d been rolled over by a Bradley. Here he’d been doing everything in his power to keep from getting up close and personal and she was pumping him about colors and songs and . . . and roller-skating for God’s sake.

  What the hell was that about?

  Maybe she’s just lonesome, lunkhead.

  Life on the road . . . it was pretty isolating for her. Except for the hour or so she managed to squeeze out for her morning runs, it was pretty much all business, all work, and all at a pace that would give a sprinter fits.

  And it wasn’t like she had any girlfriends around to help her let off steam. Yeah, Lakesha and Tess dropped by the suite every once in a while, but it was never for long and it was usually to consult on an arrangement or background vocals or costumes. And now Max wasn’t even around like he used to be.

  Has to be lonely for her, Jase thought again as he waited at the rental-car desk for their ride.

  And you begrudge her a little harmless conversation just because you’re afraid you can’t keep a professional distance.

  She looked up from her magazine in the rental-car waiting area when he approached with a set of keys.

  She was wearing a pair of faded jeans, a Kid Rock T-shirt with arms long enough to cover her tattoo, and pink discount-store flip-flops that she’d sent out for. And, of course, her cross.

  Her hair was tucked up under his Army ball cap. Today, she’d tied a blue and white farmer’s bandana around her neck. From the look on her face when she’d met him in the living room of the suite, she’d been as pleased as punch over her getup.

  She didn’t look anything like a rock star sitting there. The star quality was unmistakable, just the same.

  “All set?”

  He tossed the keys in the air and caught them. “Let’s roll.”

  “Got us a real hot rod, I’m guessing,” she said, her tone saying she figured just the opposite.

  “Guess again.”

  “Boring,” she singsonged when he unlocked the passenger door of the white Ford Taurus and helped her in.

  “That’s the point.”

  “Even normal people drive sports cars,” she pointed out, pulling the strap on her seat belt across her body. “Snazzy red ones. With convertible tops.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  She would never come within a Mississippi mile of normal, no matter how much she dressed down and attempted to blend. There was just something about her. Something he needed to quit dwelling on.

  Extract your head from your ass and do the job, Wilson.

  Just because they’d made it this far without being recognized didn’t mean their luck would hold. Or that they’d fooled Grimm, who, Jase was fairly certain, was keeping tabs on her the way a bookie kept tabs on the races at Hialeah.

  Her bodyguard covered all the bases; Janey gave him that. When they were within a few blocks of the bank, he called ahead and arranged for the bank president to meet them at the employee entrance.

  “No sense taking a risk of you getting made at this point,” he explained when she asked him if the term “overkill” meant anything to him.

  Talk about overkill. The man did things for a plain white T-shirt and off-the-rack jeans that were downright amazing. She didn’t know what he did in his bedroom at night after she turned in, but she had to suspect there might be a heck of a lot of push-ups going on behind that closed door.

  When he was in full bodyguard mode—like he was now—she could picture him in a firefight. His cheek flush against a rifle, sighting down the barrel, covering a buddy’s back.

  He had that lean, mean special-ops look about him when he was like this. All business. All focus. Dangerous . . . in spite of those baby blues and the gentleness of his hand at the small of her back as they walked to the bank’s rear entrance.

  A middle-aged man in a neat navy suit and power red tie opened the door for them. He was on the short side—maybe five six—with thinning gray hair, silver wire-framed bifocals, and a toothy white smile.

  “Ms. Perkins,” he said, with an ingratiating smile that she saw all too often when someone wanted something from her. “Robert Haley, the president of Capital Progress. It’s a pleasure meeting you. And what good timing. You made it just before closing.”

  “Mr. Haley,” Janey said, taking the hand he offered. Now that they were here, she was officially nervous and wishing she were anywhere else. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was in her mother’s lockbox. Had an unreasonable sense of discomfort just thinking about opening it up. It felt almost ghoulish. Like she was grave-robbing or something.

  “Jason Wilson.” Beside her, Baby Blue extended a hand. “We talked on the phone.”

  “Wilson,” the banker said with a nod, and returned Jase’s handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “We need a room w
here Ms. Perkins can access the lockbox in private.”

  Well. Nothing like cutting to the chase, Janey thought.

  If Haley was put off by Wilson’s brusqueness, he didn’t show it. “Of course. Yes, of course. Please follow me. And might I add, this is a nice surprise, considering we didn’t expect you in person after you’d sent your proxy down this morning.”

  Janey stopped walking.

  Someone came to the bank saying he was my proxy? She glanced sharply at Wilson, every nerve cell in her body screaming out a red alert.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her close to his side.

  Haley turned with a smile, just then realizing they weren’t following. His smile unfolded into a frown when he saw their faces.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Miss Perkins didn’t send a proxy.”

  “But . . . Mr. Lemans said you’d sent him as your representative.”

  Beside her, Janey could feel Wilson’s muscles bunch with tension. He held up a hand and gave a slight shake of his head when she opened her mouth to ask him the obvious question: What in the hell is going on?

  “Is he still here?” he asked Haley.

  “Oh dear. I’m sensing something’s very wrong,” the banker said with a worried look.

  As understatements went, it topped the charts.

  “Is he still here?” Wilson repeated more forcefully, moving in front of Janey and blocking her in between him and the wall, effectively making a shield with his body.

  It was in that moment that all of this became very, very real. And very, very serious. This man was prepared to give up his life for her. Yeah, it’s what he’d been hired to do. And she’d accepted that. But that was when they were talking about a “bodyguard.” A nameless, faceless entity. A body for hire.

  Now they were talking about Jason Wilson. Iowa. Baby Blue. The thought of his blood being spilled for the sake of hers horrified her, eclipsing the uncertainty of the moment.

  “Mr. Haley. I need to know if he’s still here,” Jase demanded, blasting both her and Mr. Haley out of shock mode.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. No. No, he’s gone. I don’t know where, but he’s not here any longer.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “Yes. Yes, oh yes. He left . . . let me think. It was shortly before one, I believe. I left him in my office to contact you to verify his authenticity. When I couldn’t reach you, I came back to my office and he was gone. I thought it was strange at the time, but, well, I assumed something must have come up and he’d had to leave unexpectedly.”

  “Something came up all right,” Wilson muttered, and let up on the pressure against her body.

  Janey’s legs felt a little rubbery. And her mind was spinning in circles.

  “Do I need to call the police?” Haley’s worried gaze flitted from Janey to Wilson.

  “We’ll get to that. In the meantime, this . . . Lemans . . . what business, specifically, did he say he was here for?”

  “Why—to access the lockbox.”

  Stunned, Janey glanced at Wilson. Saw the same question in his eyes that she was asking herself. Whoever it was knew about Alice’s lockbox?

  “I didn’t allow him to, of course. Bank policy clearly prohibits anyone but the owners of the lockboxes from opening them—unless of course we have specific instructions from the owner and verification of the proxy’s identity and permissions. Since Mr. Lemans couldn’t provide that verification, we were unable to honor his request.

  “You know,” Haley added, cupping his chin between his thumb and forefinger and adopting the look of an amateur sleuth, “now that I think about it, there was something suspicious about that man from the beginning. And the way he reacted when I told him how surprised I was that Ms. Perkins had sent him in light of the fact that I’d just been notified you were coming—”

  “You told him Ms. Perkins was coming to the bank today?”

  “Well, yes, I did. I was surprised, of course, and told him as much since I’d thought you were coming.”

  The word that came out of Baby Blue’s mouth was one she’d never associate with babies.

  “Oh dear.” Haley removed his glasses, wiped at his eyes. “I . . . I thought he’d want to meet her here. Was that . . . was that wrong? I mean, I assumed he works for you.” He turned to Janey, his expression stricken.

  “Can you tell us what he looked like?” Baby Blue asked.

  Medium height. Medium build. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark glasses, so Haley hadn’t gotten a look at his eyes. Mustache and beard. Other than that, nothing remarkable.

  That’s what Mr. Haley remembered about the man. It wasn’t much to go on.

  “I . . . I know I would recognize him if I saw him again. And I’m sure our security cameras caught him on tape.”

  “Just like I’m sure he was probably wearing a disguise,” Wilson pointed out. “Look, Mr. Haley, could you show us to the lockbox now please? And while we’re there, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d pull those tapes, then call the Tupelo police. Ask for Officer Rodman and request that he meet us here.”

  “Oh. Oh certainly. I can do that. I am so sorry if I’ve done anything wrong.”

  “Not your fault. And you did everything right,” he assured the distraught banker. “What we need now are the police. And access to that box.”

  Janey sat at a rectangular wooden table in the middle of a stark ten-by-ten room that smelled of ink and metal and cleaning solution. Her heart knocked around in her chest like a pinball as she stared in absolute shock at the contents of the open lockbox.

  “I don’t understand,” she said on barely a whisper. “Not any of this.”

  Money. Bundles of it filled Alice Perkins’s lockbox in neat, banded stacks.

  “Holy God. Looks like there’s about ten thousand per stack.” Baby Blue’s voice came to her from what seemed like a far, far distance.

  Standing behind her, he shuffled through the piles of cash, stirring up a slightly musty scent into the room to mix with the scent of her shock. “There must be close to a million bucks in here.”

  A million dollars. A million dollars.

  “I don’t understand,” she repeated. “Why would my mother have this kind of money?”

  Unless . . .

  “Unless she never spent any of the money I sent her,” Janey concluded out loud.

  “I’m getting by.”

  That’s what her mother had said that night Janey had called her. “I’m getting by.”

  “You sent her money?”

  She nodded, did a quick calculation in her head, and realized that she probably had sent her mother close to a million dollars over the years. “Every month. For several years now.”

  Wilson rummaged deeper into the lockbox.

  “The fact that most or all of it must be here might explain why she lived as modestly as she did. But it doesn’t explain why. Why would she keep it? Why wouldn’t she spend it?”

  “And who would have known about it?” her bodyguard added to the list of questions. “Someone obviously did. They tried to get to it today.”

  “A tabloid reporter?” she suggested, grasping at straws. “A lot of people have lockboxes. They might have taken a shot in the dark. You know. Trying to get some inside scoop or something not even knowing the money was here.”

  Wilson had already moved on to something else.

  “Look at this.” He shoved a piece of paper into her field of vision.

  She didn’t react at first. She was still thinking about the money. About the “proxy” and wondering what else could possibly happen to complicate her life.

  “Janey,” he prompted. “Do these names mean anything to you?”

  She glanced at the sheet of paper. Recognized her mother’s handwriting but not the names.

  Kathy (Simpson) Wallace

  Candice (Becker) Richards

  Lana (Jensen) Fredrickson

  Tammy (Quigley) Smith

  “No. I don’t know. I
don’t think I know any of those women.”

  “Your mother must have.” He kept digging through the box. “The question is, why would she keep their names under lock and key?”

  “The question,” Janey said, as she stared at the money, “is what in the hell is going on?”

  “Janey . . . this guy look familiar to you?”

  She glanced up to see him holding a photograph.

  Without a word, he handed it to her. She took it with a shaking hand, sensing on some instinctive level that what she was about to see might change her life forever.

  It was an old Polaroid snapshot, faded and cracked and grainy. And as she stared into a face that looked vaguely familiar, into eyes that were deep set, hair that was dark brown, she didn’t have a clue who he was.

  Or did she?

  She closed her eyes as her heart stumbled. Opened them again as her breath stalled while she studied, studied, studied the photograph.

  Her fingers felt stiff and cold suddenly. And her face felt flaming hot.

  She’d never met her father. Had never known his name.

  Could it be . . . could it possibly be . . . that after twenty-seven years of knowing nothing about him, she was finally looking at his face?

  Do you think it could have been Grimm? The guy at the bank this morning?” Janey clarified when Jase looked across the booth top at her. “Do you think that Le-mans was actually Grimm?”

  They were sharing a booth in an out-of-the-way momand-pop barbeque restaurant on the south side of Tupelo where Jase was certain they hadn’t been followed. The place smelled exactly like a rib place should. Of barbeque sauce, wood smoke, and age.

  Jase could have used a beer. Instead, he had ordered a Coke for himself, water for her. And two dinner specials.

  “It’s possible.” He studied Janey’s face across the worn red oilcloth covering the booth top. Not that it was his job, but he was worried about her. “Hell yeah, it’s possible, but . . .” He stopped. Shook his head.

  “But what?”

  “But why? Grimm’s fixation is on you. Getting close to you. Why would he be here? Seems like he’d be in New York. Or on his way to Boston and your next concert.”