Good God, she was being pulled over.
She squinted in the mirror and gasped. By Zane.
Crazily, she had the urge to stomp on the accelerator and try to outrun him. But realizing the futility—and the danger—she slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. The cat, though, apparently had had enough of the cold wind ruffling his fur. With a great yowl, he scrambled up to the open window and leaped out.
"No!" Gloria shouted and reached for empty air. Her seat belt brought her up short. In the side mirror, she watched the black furball bound through the tall grass and disappear into the trees bordering the ramp.
She moaned, but her attention quickly went back to Zane, who had pulled his flashing cruiser behind her and emerged from the car.
Frantically wiping at her eyes, she tried to think rationally, despite the headache descending rapidly. Why would he be stopping her? Maybe her taillight was out, or her registration was expired, she thought frantically. She pasted on a smile for Zane, steeling herself against his effect on her senses, on her heart. If she talked her way out of this, she could be on the road within a few minutes.
"Mornin'," he said as he stepped up to the car and leaned down. He looked powerful in his pressed uniform, built for authority. He lifted his sunglasses to reveal those glorious gray eyes that were, at the moment, unreadable. He was close enough to kiss, and God knew she wanted to do just that.
"Good morning," she murmured.
"I thought you'd be at the memorial for Steve Chasen," he said, his tone mild with curiosity.
"I... uh... missed the turn. I was coming back."
"Really?"
"Yes," she said, feeling more confident.
"Then why do you have a suitcase in your backseat?"
She groaned inwardly. "After the service, I have to go on a short trip... just for the weekend."
"Mighty big suitcase for a weekend trip."
Frustration ballooned in her chest. "Chief Riley, did you need something?"
He studied her with an intensity that awakened every nerve ending in her body. Her temples pounded. Her palms were sweaty on the steering wheel.
"No," he said finally.
"Then why did you pull me over?"
"Because you're driving without a license." He pulled her driver's license out of his shirt pocket and held it up.
Relief loosened her shoulders, and she laughed nervously. "Oh... right." She reached for it, but he pulled it back.
"Not so fast. I got the results back from the crime lab. The wrapper on the candy bar that Steve Chasen ate had definitely been tampered with."
"Oh, that's... terrible."
"I thought I told you not to leave town."
She moistened her dry lips. "You did."
"You are a material witness to three crimes, Counselor. You should know better than trying to skip town."
"And you should know, Chief, that you need a warrant to detain a material witness."
He grinned. "Guess you got me there."
She reached for her driver's license, but he pulled it back.
"Not so fast." He reached around and withdrew a sheath of papers from his back pocket. "I happen to have that warrant right here."
Her throat convulsed—oh, God. "Zane," she said, instinctively calling him by his first name. "You don't understand. I have to leave, and you have to trust me."
He scoffed, then gave a little laugh. "Trust you?"
"Yes."
"Trust you?"
Perspiration rolled down her back. "Yes."
"Give me one good reason why I should trust you... Lorey."
Chapter 27
Lorey.
Gloria's mind reeled. Zane tilted his face ninety degrees... no, she realized, as the car began to spin, she was having an attack... a bad one. She closed her eyes, but the nystagmus set in, with an intensity that made her hold her head and cry out. Her ears rang as if a bell had materialized in her head.
Through a tunnel she heard Zane's voice, fading in and out. "What's wrong?... Lorey?... Are you ill?"
She tried to lie down in the seat and clawed at the seat belt holding her upright.
Then Zane's hands were on her, his touch searing her itchy, overstimulated skin. "Relax... I've got you..."
She had the sensation of being moved... carried... of being settled on a soft, horizontal surface. She fought to drag air in and out of her lungs, willing the beating of her eyes to stop, fighting the queasiness of a confused stomach.
"Did you take... Meclazine? Lorey... Meclazine?"
She managed to nod, which set off a series of clanging vibrations in her head that took her breath away. Darkness closed in, and she lost sense of time and space. She was spinning, floating, rolling, being tossed like a rag doll... a voodoo doll... she might have been dreaming or unconscious... Steve Chasen was there, alive, but his face was cherry-red... and the man in the black coat who had killed her father, his eyes, empty, like a zombie... and Melissa was there, saying she was sorry, so sorry for what she'd done... and Dr. Whiting was there, his voice soothing, murmuring Cajun words, addressing someone named Gran Bwa... then someone strapped her on a roller-coaster car and started the ride... she screamed and resisted, but when the spinning became intolerable, she surrendered to it...
And then all was still.
Gloria opened her eyes a millimeter at a time, afraid to breathe, afraid a mere thought might bring back the spins. Her ears vibrated, her skin hummed. Her nose stung with the pungent scent of basil and chamomile. She was lying in a dark room—the morgue? Was she dead? She risked making a tiny noise, more of a sigh, really, to see what would happen. The sound resonated in her ears, sounding hollow, but normal. She swallowed, which caused her ears to pop painfully.
A touch to her hand startled her.
"Hey."
Zane. Slowly, she cut her eyes to the side and brought his silhouette into focus. And his last words came back to her... he knew who she was.
"How are you feeling?" he said quietly.
She swallowed again and tried her voice. "Much... better."
"Good. I was worried. Dr. Whiting put you in a chair and spun you like a top—he swore it would make you feel better, but I had my doubts."
A door opened, ushering in a shaft of light before it closed again. "I heard voices," Dr. Whiting said.
"She's awake," Zane confirmed, then stepped away.
Dr. Whiting came into Gloria's sight, his face vaguely discernible as her eyes adjusted to the low lighting. "You gave us quite a scare, Ms. Dalton."
"I feel better," she whispered. "What did you do?"
"I put you in a swivel chair, then rapidly repositioned you to restore your equilibrium."
A bit unconventional, but she couldn't argue with the results. Even her nausea had disappeared. She wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"
He smiled. "A paket I made for you, with ginkgo biloba to increase the blood flow to your head, basil, celery and chamomile to reduce the wind in your ears."
"I heard you talking to someone."
Another smile. "I thought an appeal to the healing lwa couldn't hurt."
A voodoo prayer? Unease prodded her, but after a few seconds, apprehension gave way to gratitude. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I want you to lie here for at least an hour before Chief Riley takes you home. You can talk, but no sudden movements. And when you get home, you have to be diligent about taking your Meclazine, okay?"
She nodded, and Zane thanked him as he left the room.
She closed her eyes, realizing that the moment of reckoning was near.
"How about some water?" Zane asked.
She nodded.
He brought a cup to her mouth and held a straw to her lips. His big hands were gentle, but his mouth was set in a straight line.
"Thanks," she murmured.
"So we have an hour to kill," Zane said, pulling a chair next to the padded table where she lay. "Do you feel like talking?"
"N-not really."
<
br /> "Okay, then I'll talk. You're Lorey Lawson, aren't you?"
His gaze bore into hers, his rugged face strongly delineated in the dim lighting.
What should she do? Lie and deny, WITSEC had taught her. But how could she now?
"Did you find my black cat?" she asked, invoking divert and deflect.
"No," he said. "Answer my question."
She counted to three... to ten... to twenty. Then, aware she could be setting off a dangerous chain of events, she locked gazes with Zane.
And nodded.
He expelled an anguished exhale, which sounded as if he'd been holding it for fourteen years. Then he dragged his hand down his face and drew back to stare at her. "What... what happened to you? Why did you just leave? And why this... disguise?"
Her throat was so clogged with emotion it was a minute before she could talk, but when she started to speak, the story came rolling out. "You might not remember, but my f-father worked for an import/export business and got my mother a job at the company, too, in the accounting department. When she realized that they were really working for Bernard Riaz, the crime boss, she was furious with my father." Gloria stopped to take a few deep breaths.
"Then what happened?" Zane asked.
"Then Riaz was arrested on federal charges. My dad agreed to testify and take us all into the witness protection program, but my mother refused. Until—" Her throat convulsed. "Until the night a hit man came to our house and shot my father. He told my mother if she testified, he'd come back for us. U.S. marshals relocated us and gave us new names and identities. My mother testified, Riaz went to prison, and we went on with our new lives." She drew a deep inhale into her lungs, waiting for his response.
His eyes were wide with disbelief. "Your father was murdered?"
She nodded, and pent-up tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Where's your mother?"
"She left the program years ago and dropped out of sight because she thought I would be in danger as long as we were in contact with each other."
"You don't know what happened to her?"
She shook her head.
"But if Riaz went to prison, why are you still in the program?"
"Because he hadn't exhausted all of his appeals. And he's out now, waiting for a new trial."
Zane looked as if he was trying to digest what she'd just told him. A dozen separate emotions played over his face, ending in bewilderment. "Does this have anything to do with what's been going on in Mojo?"
"M-maybe."
His jaw tightened. "You're going to have to be more specific."
Her mind rewound back through the week's events—where to start? "The day Steve Chasen died, I removed some file folders from his briefcase because I thought they were client folders. Instead, it looks as if he might have been blackmailing local residents."
"Blackmailing?"
"There was a folder on Ziggy Hines, the chef in New Orleans, with provocative photos inside and a transcript that indicated Steve had asked him for money to keep the pictures quiet."
Zane frowned. "Who else?"
"Guy Bishop—in his folder there were photos of him with another man."
"Guy thinks his sexual orientation is a big secret? Who else?"
"Mona Black, only her file was empty."
He pursed his mouth. "And why, Counselor, would you withhold this information from me?"
"Because... Steve also had a folder... on me."
His eyebrows went up. "You?"
"With a note inside that indicated he had contracted with someone to get information on L.L."
"But how could he know that you were Lorey Lawson?"
"I don't know, but when I was at his house looking for clues, the person he'd contracted to get my information called, and I answered. I told him Steve was dead and to forget about the information."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. I gave the phone number to my WITSEC handler to trace, but it was a phone booth in Baton Rouge."
He put a hand to his temple. "All this time, you've been conducting an investigation with the feds behind my back?"
"What was I supposed to do?"
He looked incredulous. "How about trust me?"
"I... I was afraid if I gave you the other folders and you dug into Steve's files..."
"That I would find out about you."
She nodded.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did you set the fire at his home to destroy evidence?"
"Absolutely not. But... there's more."
"Why did I know that was coming?"
She told him about the blackmailer calling on her cell phone and threatening to expose her identity in the Post.
Zane scowled. "The newspaper can't out someone in the witness protection program."
"The way Daniel Guess has been sniffing around for a headline, I couldn't chance it. I didn't know what to do, but I thought it would be easier to pay the money and hope the person would simply go away."
"So that explains the five hundred dollars I found in Chasen's mailbox."
"Right. The man called again yesterday and demanded a thousand this time. He told me to take the money to the Central Cemetery Sunday morning before six o'clock."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I would, then my handler called. He thought it was getting too dangerous." She hesitated. "Apparently another witness in the Riaz case was murdered. Without witnesses, the prosecution doesn't have a case to retry. George is afraid Riaz's men might be trying to find my mother... through me."
"And that this knucklehead working with Chasen might have somehow tipped them off as to your whereabouts?"
She nodded.
"You have no idea who could be making those calls?"
"No—it's a male voice, but it's muffled, with a lot of noise on the line."
"I'll have your cell phone records pulled and trace the calls—maybe he's using a different phone than the phone booth that he used to call Chasen." Then his mouth hardened. "If it's even the same guy."
"The marshal is already tracing the calls," she said quietly.
Zane's mouth tightened. "Is he tracing Chasen's calls, too?"
"Just the number I gave him. But he did run a background check on Steve, and didn't find a connection to Riaz."
Zane's entire body went rigid. "But what if it was one of Riaz's thugs shooting at you in the square?"
"It c-crossed my mind," she murmured.
He put his hand to his head. "And I've been wasting my time focusing on a trigger-happy hunter."
"You didn't know."
"That's because you didn't tell me!" He fairly shook with anger. "Where were you going when I pulled you over?"
"To New Orleans... to be relocated."
"Relocated?"
"As in new name, new everything."
He lifted his hands. "Just like that?"
Just like that? Hurt coiled around her chest like a steel band. Didn't he realize how difficult the decision had been for her? "I... didn't see an alternative."
"Your alternative," he said through clenched teeth, "was to confide in me."
His anger caught her off guard. "I couldn't... it was too dangerous for anyone to know."
"Is that what I am to you, Lorey—just anyone?"
"No," she murmured. "You mean a lot to me, Zane. That's why I... wanted to spend the night with you."
His eyes blazed. "You didn't mind picking up where we left off, except you didn't want to let me in on the secret. Jesus, I feel like an idiot."
"It wasn't like that, Zane—"
"So let me get this straight—you couldn't trust me, and now I'm supposed to trust you, when you withheld evidence that incriminates you for murdering Steve Chasen?"
Her eyes went wide. "But I just told you why—"
"Where are these files?"
She blinked at his sharp tone. "In my briefcase."
His anger was palpable. "Do you realize if you'd come to me sooner, I might have one
less body on my hands?"
Gloria bit down on her tongue to stem more tears.
Zane turned away and jammed his hand into his hair. "Why I ever came to this godforsaken town, I don't know."
"Why did you?" she asked quietly.
He emitted a dry laugh. "To be close to the missing persons task force in the hope of finding you, how bizarre is that?" And from the sound of his voice, he wished he hadn't found her.
But could she blame him?
He dragged the chair as far away from her as possible and dropped into it, his body language closed and angry.
She wanted to reach out to him, but she was awash in her own shame. Seducing him without telling him the truth... it was unforgivable. But one question burned in her mind like a hot coal. "How did you figure it out, Zane? How did you know I was Lorey?"
He took his time answering, staring at her as if he was still trying to absorb everything she'd told him. "Little things started adding up. I even did a background check on you, but it came back clean. I thought I might be losing my mind, until I pulled you over and saw your eyes—your blue eyes. And I knew."
Her eyes had been too scratchy this morning to put in her green contacts. A bittersweet thrill went through her that he would remember such a small detail.
"But you're so... different," he said. "Everything about you has changed."
Her heart squeezed. He sounded displeased... deflated... disappointed. Just as she'd predicted.
"I need to call my handler," she said, back to business. "The U.S. marshals' office in New Orleans is expecting me."
"What are you going to say?" he asked, his tone territorial.
"I'll tell him you know everything."
"And then what will happen?"
"They'll come to pick me up."
"The hell they will," he said, shooting up from the chair and jamming his hands on his hips. "Not until I get to the bottom of what's going on here in Mojo."
"Wh-what did you have in mind?"
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