Warrior Without a Cause

by Nancy Gideon

  She wasn't alone.

  The crime scene tape and smudges of fingerprint powder were gone. The door to Suite 1410

  looked deceivingly undisturbed, as if it was just another day at the office and as if when she opened it, all would be as it should be inside. The phones would be ringing. Reporters would be waiting, hoping to get a few minutes with the candidate. Hal Storey, their political analyst, would be going over poll sheets planning the next wave to swamp public opinion in their favor. And Robert D'Angelo would be behind his desk, signing paperwork for a harried court clerk while talking plea bargains with the defense team on his speakerphone. His bag lunch would be spread across the files, sandwich still uneaten and going stale. He'd look up and wave her in, into his world, his life, his dreams.

  She unlocked the door and opened it to silence.

  The lights were off. The smell of an efficient cleaning crew hung in the climate-controlled air. And then Jack asked the impossible.

  "Walk me through what happened that night."

  She reached out and flipped on the lights, illuminating the scene of her nightmares.

  "It was about eight o'clock. I'd signed in downstairs and asked Gary, the guard, about his little girl. She had the measles. It was quiet. I don't remember seeing anyone else. We had a trial the following week, nothing exciting but I had a motion to prepare for the judge and figured I'd draft it before going home. I'd gone out to dinner with the junior partner from another firm."

  "His name?"

  "Jeff Boetright from Engle, Steiger & Steiger. It was just dinner."

  She didn't mention she'd had hopes it could be more. Jeff Boetright, junior partner from Engle, Steiger & Steiger. Out of the blue, he'd called, asking her to take him up on a quiet meal and some conversation. He was handsome, ambitious, funny and she'd needed the distraction from the pressure cooker of campaigning and long hours of paperwork. And, face it, her social calendar hadn't exactly been running over with offers.

  But the dinner had been a disaster. Jeff ate, drank and drank and drank office politics. He'd talked about himself and when he'd exhausted that subject ad nauseam, he'd talked about her father. She might well have been an extra place setting for all the use she got during that painfully long meal. Jeff had had no interest in her on any level and apparently had asked her out just to pump her for information on her father's campaign plans. It seems Engle, Steiger & Steiger had just picked up a fat account from Councilman Martinez and the always-scheming Jeff had been looking to score a few points. Well, he hadn't scored any with her. She'd had him drop her off at the office and written off the dinner in her mind as an unpleasant business expense.

  "I didn't know anyone was still here. The lights were off and the door to my father's office was closed. Then I heard his voice. I figured he was dictating. He did some of his best thinking after hours, and my mother had gone to some charity event that night so he didn't have to be home. I didn't want to disturb him so I went to my desk and got out the paperwork I needed."

  She walked to her big ultramodern command center, a horseshoe of desktop, crowded with computer and communications equipment and file bins. The file she'd come for that night still rested on her blotter, unopened, the case unresolved while substitution of attorney motions were being submitted. She touched the red folder but for the life of her couldn't remember a single detail about the case. Odd. With her near-photographic memory, she could usually recite the trial brief verbatim. She hadn't thought about any of their cases since that night, since the owner of that voice had sent their caseload spiraling off her priority docket. The only case she was interested in was one no one else wanted to take. She closed her eyes and took a breath, letting the sounds of that night come back to her. Her father, his tone sharpening, growing louder in agitation. And then the other man whose low words were indistinguishable but still made her go cold with dread at their implicit threat.

  "They were arguing. I couldn't hear what they were saying but my father was very upset. He never raised his voice in the office or at home but he was shouting."

  "Could he have been talking to someone on the speaker-phone?"

  "I wondered that myself. It was late and he never made appointments after hours in the office. Over cocktails at his club, but not here. This was his private sanctuary after five."

  But not his and hers. He never encouraged her to stay to burn the midnight oil with him.

  "Then what?" came Jack's soft prompt.

  Eyes closed, her senses filled with the atmosphere of that night, Tessa jerked abruptly. "The gunshot. It was so loud. For the longest time I couldn't move. I couldn't make myself consider the significance of that sound. There was a clatter and a thump then silence. Just silence."

  She'd run to the door and found it locked. She'd been calling then, screaming her father's name with only more of that damning silence to answer. She'd tried using her shoulder as a battering ram but the panel was solid oak and as she'd discovered, painfully, quite impervious. She'd been sobbing by then, great gulping sobs that had heaved up from her belly to claw her throat raw.

  An accident. It had to have been an accident. But if he was all right and was sitting behind his desk chagrined because he'd foolishly discharged his pistol, why hadn't he answered her frantic cries?

  "I called Gary. I told him to come up with the keys. I didn't say why. I guess I hoped it wouldn't be necessary to call the police. My father was a staunch supporter of gun control. Imagine how it would have looked in the paper if he'd injured himself with his own handgun. That's what I was thinking at the time. I was thinking of how to protect his image, not how to save his life." Her recriminating words came to an awful grinding halt.

  "There was no way you could have known, Tessa." He said it with a simple, get-over-it directness. And somehow she was able to take hold of her galloping emotions. She glanced at him through eyes bright with pain and confused horror.

  "No, I had no idea. Never in a million years could I have guessed what we'd find when Gary opened that door." Her words choked but she was able to swallow and continue almost matter-of-factly. "There was so much blood. I was shocked. I remember thinking my father would never have left such a mess. He was always so meticulous about his work space. Funny the things you think about."

  "Yes, it is," he agreed gently. He continued in the same tone. "Where was the gun, Tessa?"

  "He had it in his hand. I knew he owned one. He'd bought it for my mother but she'd refused to learn how to use it or to have it in the house. So he kept it here in his desk."

  "Did anyone else know he had it?"

  "I don't know, Jack. It wasn't something that just came up in conversation. He wasn't the kind of man who would have a gun, or who would advertise that he had one. It would have been on record somewhere that it was in his possession. He wouldn't have had it in the building without going through the proper channels."

  "But he knew how to use one."

  "Oh, yes. He was a marksman in the service."

  "Did you stay with him until the police arrived?" Another quiet yet firmly asked question.

  "Yes. Gary went into the outer office to call 9-1-1. I didn't want to leave my father alone."

  "Did you move anything? Did you notice anything out of place?"

  She thought a moment, forcing her mind to go over the gruesome scene incrementally. "No."

  "Tessa, was the speakerphone on?"

  She met his gaze fully. "No."

  "Think carefully. Had there been any repair work done in the building in the month before your father died? Not just in your office but anywhere."

  "I don't remember."

  "Who would know?"

  "Maurice would have a list of any repair or maintenance crews that were in after hours."

  "It wouldn't have to be after hours."

  Then he simply stood, taking in the room. Floor, ceiling, walls, windows. And she could see him thinking, If I were a predator, where would I hide?

  "How could he have gotten out o
f the room, Jack? There's only one door and he didn't go past me. The windows don't open and the duct work is too small. How the hell did he get out of the room?"

  His gaze cut from the single door to the rectangular air vent to the large windows looking down over the city. He went to that clear vista to place fingertips against the glass as he surveyed the world below. He made no comment, offered no suggestion. Frustrated, Tessa threw up her hands.

  "A ghost. That's what the police said. I was chasing ghosts. Well, I don't believe in them."

  "I do," was Jack's surprising reply. "I've seen them and what they can do." He turned away from the window, his expression tightly shut down, his stare intense. "Can you get a list of any workers who were in the building?"

  "Sure." Hope and excitement surged inside her. "What are you thinking, Jack?"

  "I'm thinking plenty. I'm saying nothing. Not yet. Let's get that list. I want to drop it off with someone."

  Pumped with expectation, Tessa never thought to ask whom.

  "What do you think? Think you can do a little homework for me?"

  "You never asked for help when you were a kid. I'd almost given up on ever being of any use to you."

  "Cry me a river, Pop. Just figured you'd jump at the chance to put that new computer of yours through its paces."

  "Not much makes me jump these days." Michael Chaney patted the arms of his wheelchair and grinned. "Kind of out of practice." He leaned around his son to study Tessa where she stood just inside the doorway to his apartment. He lived in a tidy single bedroom unit with full handicapped access. Pictures of his son in military uniform marched proudly across the painted walls. They shared the same broad white smile meant to charm ladies out of their panties. That smile softened. "You look like her."

  Tessa gave a start of surprise. "Who?"

  "Your mother. A fine lady. Made great tuna on rye."

  Tessa said nothing to interfere with his memories of Saint Barbara who hadn't touched a can of tuna in twenty-five years and probably couldn't find the bread drawer. Nor did she correct his lack of visual perception.

  "I was sorry to hear about your dad," he continued with real feeling. "What a waste. I'm glad Jack's going to help you make things right."

  "Actually, you and Stan will be doing that," his son amended.

  "The legwork?" Again, the grin at Jack's exasperation. "Happy to do anything I can to help out one of the good guys. Robby D'Angelo was one of the best and it makes me sick to hear what they've been saying about him. You give us a couple of days and we'll come up with what you need. And don't you worry, little lady. My boy will take good care of you. He's one of the good guys, too, even though he tends to forget that once in a while."

  "I'm working for her, Pop, not married to her."

  The elder Chaney winked at Tessa. "Same thing. And you could do worse.

  "He's teaching me to take care of myself, Mr. Chaney. And then I'm going to take care of whoever killed my father."

  After considering her tough talk, Michael Chaney nodded. "Vengeance is mine."

  "Not vengeance. Justice."

  "Sometimes that's the same thing. Jack will watch your back just like Stan watched mine. You give 'em hell, little lady."

  * * *

  "Why are you getting yourself and now your family so involved in this, Jack?"

  Busy negotiating traffic, Jack didn't spare her a glance. "Is that what I'm doing?"

  "It's not that I don't appreciate—"

  The rest of her planned dismissal was cut off as Jack looked into the rearview mirror and froze. His sudden low curse was followed by a curt warning.

  "Hang on."

  The impact to the rear of the truck threw her against the wrap of her seat belt and knocked the breath from her. Almost immediately they were struck again. Jack fought the wheel and managed to swing them into the next lane of rush-hour motorists. A big sedan pulled up alongside them. The windows were darkly tinted. Tessa couldn't see the driver. She cried out, gripping the dash as the other vehicle purposefully slammed into the passenger door. Hemmed in on all three sides, Jack had no maneuvering room and struggled to stay in their lane as they were battered twice more. Then, with an exit fast approaching, he gave the wheel a yank to the right.

  The Ram lived up to its name, bashing into the sedan with enough power to shove the vehicle off onto the shoulder, smoke billowing out from under the hood. The truck barreled up the off-ramp but instead of making good their escape, Jack cranked the wheel, spinning the Ram in a tight one-eighty to confront their assailant. He revved the motor meaningfully.

  Seeing the tables turned, the driver of the crumpled car gunned the engine, sending the vehicle careening back into traffic. In a near suicidal move, the car executed a U-turn and amid the screech of brakes and blare of horns merged with southbound traffic.

  Tessa expelled her breath noisily.

  For a moment they idled on the exit ramp facing the wrong way. Then Jack edged back onto the highway much to the surprise of several drivers starting up the ramp. As he blended into the flow of bumper-to-bumper he muttered, "Damn rush-hour traffic. Now you know why I don't live in the city."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  They didn't discuss the vehicular assault. It didn't need to be brought out in the open. Someone had been watching either Tessa's mother's house or the office. They'd seen her with Jack and had followed, waiting for a chance to use traffic as their weapon. With a less skilled driver behind the wheel, they might have succeeded. If Tessa and Jack had been in her Lexus, they would have been a highway statistic and no one would have been the wiser as to the cause. Another convenient accident and problem eliminated. What they didn't yet realize, Tessa decided, is that not only did they fail, they had created a much bigger, more dangerous problem. They had tangled with the wrong guy.

  Rubbing her shoulder where it ached from the cut of the seat belt, Tessa glanced at her somber-faced driver. His features could have been cut from a block of ice with a chain saw. She knew he had never wanted her troubles to become his and yet they'd encroached upon him steadily, bringing her under his care, into his house and now to her rescue. And the tightness in his squared jaw said he didn't like having any of those situations forced upon him. Whether it was out of obligation to Stan or because, as his father said, he was one of the good guys and couldn't help himself, he'd given up his intensely private life to try to make some sense out of the chaos that was her own. And he didn't like it. In fact, he probably resented the hell out of it and her. She wouldn't blame him. This wasn't what he'd signed on for.

  "I want to start training again in the morning."

  He didn't look at her. His response was as flat as the press of his lips. "Fine."

  And that was the last that was said until they pulled in at the compound. Jack got out to inspect the damage to his already battered truck. The bumper had a new wrinkle but her door was as creased as his aggravated brow. Without a word, he went around to the back of the truck once more and returned with the dented license plate in hand. At her questioning look, he finally relented.

  "They can't trace this here. It's registered to my office address. I've been meaning to get a more upscale location anyway."

  What did he mean? That he suspected they would vandalize his place in the city in hopes of intimidation? They didn't know Chaney. Tessa sensed that when they messed with something of his, it was like poking a sleeping predator with a stick. And he wouldn't be content to go back to sleep until he'd had every last one of them for dinner.

  "Maybe I should leave."

  "Now there's a smart idea." He started for the house in great angry strides. After a moment's hesitation, she ran after him.

  "I just don't like the idea of putting Rose in danger by my being here."

  "Well, I don't like it, either."

  "So maybe I should—"

  "What?" He spun to face her. The fierceness in his expression set her back a step. "Run around in circles with
a target on your back until they take you out like they did your old man? I never thought you were stupid. Was I wrong?"

  "No. I'm not stupid." But he made her feel that way. All she wanted to do was to protect him. "I was just trying to give you an out."

  "Damned decent of you. But it's a little late for that." He started away again then turned back to explain with a terse simplicity. "It doesn't matter now. They've seen me. If they're professionals, and I know they are, they'll recognize one of their own. They're going through military databases right now trying to figure out who I am. But unless their clearance is higher than God's, they're not going to find me. And they're not going to find this place. And unless you do something stupid, they're not going to find you."

  "I'm sorry, Jack."

  Her soft-spoken words derailed his anger. "For what?"

  "For intruding. It wasn't my intention."

  He stared at her, his dark gaze engulfing her. Then he threw her best intentions back at her. "Wasn't it?"

  She let him go, watching his determined retreat without the means to argue against his accusation. She had hoped he'd get involved. She needed his help, his expertise. She needed, desperately, the sense of balance and security he brought, even reluctantly, into her life. Now she had what she wanted. Too late to bemoan the fact that she hadn't earned his trust or gained his permission first.

  She'd have to live with his disapproval. And with her own doubts.

  "Ms. D'Angelo, you come up now for dinner," Constanza called from the porch.

  Dragging the weight of both disappointment and doubt with her, Tessa went up to the house. Constanza led her to the dining room where a huge walnut table and its surrounding bent-willow chairs commanded a view of the tangled forest through a wall of glass panels. The atmosphere was again that soothing mix of rustic comfort and modern simplicity. Rose sat in one of the hand-crafted chairs with Tinker in her lap. Her expression lit up in welcome.