"Stop." His quiet growl cut me off. "Did he see you?"
"No. I mean…" I rubbed my nose. "I don't know for sure."
For the briefest second, Patrick's thunderous countenance disappeared, his face going still and gray with an expression he'd worn twice in my presence. First, when he'd seen the goose egg on my forehead, and also when he'd heard how close I'd been to the shooting.
"Shit," he muttered, thunder back in his eyes right before he squeezed them shut in a long blink.
"Look, I don't think Eric saw me, okay? And who cares? He doesn't scare me."
"You don't know what you're saying," he whispered.
"He's a newbie white collar crook at best." I couldn't help snorting. "It's not like he's out to slit my—"
"Shhh." He shot me a look.
"Hey, I hate when you do that."
"Maren." His voice was a hushed snarl. "Be quiet."
We both heard a rustling outside the door.
In a frightening-fast rush, Patrick lunged forward, hooked me around the waist and yanked me behind a stack of boxes. He didn't have to tell me to be quiet again, his anxious expression accompanied by his noiseless, labored breathing said enough.
Until right then, I didn't realize there was actual danger, and that all of Patrick's shushing and snarls was him trying to protect me, and me fighting him at every step.
He stared at me now, and when I saw the look in his eyes—worry, pain, regret—a cold hand traced up my spine. And finally, I was afraid.
Of what? It didn't matter.
"Stay down, baby," he whispered, easing us to a crouch. Then he tilted his head like he was listening. I held my breath, mentally helping him to hear. "Stay here," he mouthed, pointing down. "Don't move. Promise me."
I nodded, feeling ice in my stomach, sand in my throat, anvils in my boots.
"I'm serious. Stay here."
"I know!" I mouthed back, irritation returning. But my heart slammed with alarm when he inaudibly slipped into the darkness, leaving me alone.
Besides rain hitting the warehouse roof and the clank from the docks, there wasn't another sound for many minutes, only my own breathing, way too loud and echo-y in the hollow room. The door at the far end slowly creaked open and footsteps fell, heavier than Patrick's.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," a voice sing-songed.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
"I got your email, though I didn't think to look at my forwarded work messages until a few minutes ago. Sloppy work. You shouldn't have sent it, laid out your whole plan for me. Stand up, Maren."
Since I was more or less trapped, I saw no reason not to. Plus, it was only Eric. So I swallowed and stood on shaky legs. Upon seeing me, his pace slowed to a stroll, hands in his coat pockets, like he had all the time in the world.
"Thanks for tipping me off that you'd be here." He glanced toward the row of windows. "Not many places to hide."
"I will write my story—you can't stop me," I said, blindly moving backward. "And I found your files about Mac and Aaron, all the employees you fired." I tried to display a triumphant air, but my trembling lips wouldn't let me. "You…you should've double-locked your file drawer, Eric."
He shook his head. "Stupid woman. Nosy. When you showed up at the mill for the second protest, I knew I had to shut you up."
I glared at him through the shadows. "You threw that boot at me." Indignantly, I planted my hands on my hips. "That really hurt, you ass!"
"You wouldn't stop snooping. Nothing I did—"
"Is that why you asked me out? Then stuck your tongue down my throat? Ha! Was that the best you had? I knew I should've reported you to HR."
"Maren, it's very bad that you're here." His voice dropped to a regretful tone. "Don't you get it? There can't be any witnesses."
"Is that supposed to terrify me into not writing my story?"
He cocked his head. "You won't be able to write anything after I cut off your fingers, one by one. Then your tongue." His hand slid out of his pocket. In it, he held a knife.
All my erroneous false bravado vanished. In its place, blackness clouded my vision, and my heart leapt up my throat, making it hard to breathe. "W-what are you doing?" I backed up, faster now, knocking into a table.
"Lisa was my last—she looks like you. Remember?" His blue eyes gleamed at me. "I used this same knife on her, sliced her open like a fish. But I always leave them alive. That's part of the fun."
"Eric, calm—"
"Shut up." He gripped the knife in his other hand, moonlight bouncing off the blade.
My pulse raced like a drum roll, and my mouth was drier than Death Valley. Was this the end? Would Mom have to identify my remains after I washed up onshore, diced and half eaten by sharks? And would she blog about it afterwards? Dude, she totally would.
I kept backing away, never taking my eyes off the knife, until I stumbled over a dolly that sent me sprawling to the floor.
Just like in one of those stupid, cheesy horror movies I loved, Eric was suddenly right above me, so close the freckles on his nose became a blur.
Pinned in place, I couldn't cry, couldn't scream, couldn't even breathe, as he lifted the knife over his head…
"Freeze! LAPD!" The shout echoed through the room, bounced off the walls, banged in my ears like a canon. "Drop the knife, Brady. Drop it now, or I will shoot you dead!"
I whipped around. Patrick stood in the middle of the room, feet spread, arms extended in front of his body, pointing a gun directly at Eric's chest.
"Drop it now!" he shouted. "Drop it and get on your knees."
The knife clattered to the floor, and I immediately scooted out of the way. When Patrick got closer, I saw a gold and blue pendant hanging from a thick chain around his neck.
"On. Your. Knees," he ordered. "I will not tell you again."
Eric grunted, bared his teeth at me, then dropped to his knees.
Patrick secured his gun in a hip holster I hadn't noticed before, kicked the knife to a far corner, and got Eric from behind, pinning him flat on the floor, a knee in his back. Without moving his eyes from Eric, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
Eric muttered low curses as Patrick shackled his wrists.
"Shut-up and stay down," Patrick said as he got to his feet and pulled out a phone, talking that "apprehended perp during four-oh-seven-niner" mumbo-jumbo. I heard sirens, and Patrick's gaze moved to the window, then to me. "You—stay here, too." His tone wasn't quite as murderous as when he'd yelled at Eric, but close.
Flashing blue, red, and white of police car lights painted the walls inside the warehouse. The voices outside had grown louder. Someone was even shouting.
Patrick stood over Eric, reporting details into the phone. He shot me another glance, briefly. Wow. He looked pissed. But…but how was I supposed to know he really wasn't one of the bad guys? He never once told me to trust him.
Well, okay, yeah, he had, but he'd never given me a good enough reason to stay away from the mill.
Two uniformed officers stormed into the warehouse. Still on the phone, Patrick stepped aside as they dragged Eric off. I took this commotion as a cue to scram, and quickly struggled to my feet. The blaze in Patrick's eyes froze me in place. I was afraid he'd whip out another pair of cuffs and chain me to a pipe.
"First thing," he said into the phone. "Yes, in the morning." Still holding me in that "if looks could kill" expression, he slid the cell in his pocket and walked over, his pace reluctant.
"So, you're a cop." Yes, nerves made me point out the obvious. I tried to make my voice sound indignant, but I was sure the shaking overshadowed everything. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's called 'undercover' for a reason."
"You said you were in security." He shrugged. "You've been onto this scam the whole time?" He nodded. "For how long?"
"I told you the night of our first date that I've been here three weeks."
I thought for a moment. "Right before
Eric moved here and took over at the paper."
Patrick put his hands on his hips, displaying the gold badge hanging from his neck. City of Los Angeles Police—Detective.
"You followed him from LA," I said, again stating the obvious.
"We've been monitoring him for over a year. When he started making plans to come north, I volunteered because I'm familiar with the area."
"And I was investigating, trying to build a story." I dropped my chin, unable to meet his eyes as the whole truth fell into place, along with the final puzzle pieces. "You planned to run into me all those times, to make sure I didn't mess up your case."
"Yes."
His reply was so quick, and his tone so matter-of-fact that I couldn't help looking at him, even though seeing his face made me hopeful and mortified at the same time.
"Well, no," he amended. "Not at first. I knew you were moving home but that night at dinner and…ice cream." He stared over my shoulder and exhaled. "You'd only been out to SPI once. You weren't involved yet."
"But after that?"
"After that, I did and said anything to keep you from doing your job."
"You were very"—I locked my jaw—"convincing." I was going for that piqued tone again, but Patrick must have heard the hurt in my voice, because it was all I heard, all I felt.
"Loomis." Another uniform appeared at the doorway. "Ready?"
"Yeah," Patrick said. When the officer left, he turned back to me. His expression was unreadable, but I was pretty sure what was coming. He'd yell at me or call me "meddling," or worse…he would walk out of my life without another word.
Patrick Jamison Loomis was about to break my heart. When had I given it to him in the first place?
"Maren." He pushed back his hood, displaying that dark blond hair that my fingers itched to touch, but never would again. "I hope you brought a notebook, because you're about to get an exclusive scoop on the biggest scandal this city's seen in a decade."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Eric slumped sulkily in the back of a police cruiser. I glared through the window, but he only stared at the back of the front seat. The nerve of him, trying to scare me by waving a knife around like a lunatic, talking about cutting out my tongue.
The memory made me shiver, even though it must've been an idle threat when he'd run out of rational options.
He refused to talk to me, but Terry Replogle was almost too willing. Never lose more money in Vegas than you can afford to, was the lesson I learned from his narrative. You never knew what lowlifes would be around to take you up on trading your soul for a bail out.
I grilled him for an hour, filling up both sides of two mini tapes I'd brought along. I talked to another local detective, but he referred to Patrick so often that I realized—to obtain the more detailed facts I needed—I had no choice but to get them from Detective Loomis himself.
He sat on the rear bumper of his 4Runner, taking a statement from one of the dockworkers. I couldn't hear what he was saying, so I watched the foggy vapors curl from his mouth as he spoke. When the dockworker turned to go, Patrick stood.
"Do you have a minute?" I asked.
He closed the small spiral notebook in his hand.
"There're some holes in the story I'm hoping you can fill in," I added.
He gestured to the detective I'd just left. "Killian can tell you everything."
"No, he can't. For one thing, he wasn't there at the mill last night. You were."
He sighed. "I can't now. Maybe tomorrow."
I laughed darkly. "Patrick, do you know how a daily newspaper works?" I tapped my tape recorder. "This story will be printed in the morning and on every doorstep by four p.m. And I'll be damned if Mark Swanson scoops this. Do you want me to write it as is, or is there anything you'd like to add?"
He sighed again then sat on the bumper. I stood over him, my tape recorder right in his face.
It could've been a lot worse. Had tonight's shipment slipped by the Coast Guard, the FBI was taking over the case. Actually, they should've come in the night before because Patrick wasn't able to stop that shipment at the dock…because he'd been in the bushes on the side of the highway. With me. I'd leave that detail out of the article.
I'd been right about Eric causing both riots at the protests, though there was still the hovering, unanswered question of the hooded guy I'd seen…three times, at least…the one who should not be walking around with a bullet hole in his head.
But perhaps that particular mystery was a case to be solved another day.
When I told Patrick that Eric admitted he'd thrown the boot at my face, he didn't speak for a minute. He turned away, his jaw muscles clenching over and over until he slowly exhaled.
I glared at him. If I didn't know the circumstances better, I would've sworn he looked worried about me enough to punch another horse. But since I did know his motivations all along had been purely to distract me, he was so obviously trying to hold in a laugh. Real nice.
"What about Aaron?" I asked, stopping the tape recorder after Patrick had cleared up the final detail.
"He'll still have to go before a judge again, but the charges will be dropped."
"That's a relief."
He slapped his thighs and stood. "If that's all, I've got to get to the station. The bookings will take all night."
I looked around. Most of the police cruisers were gone, and the news vans were packing up their cameras. Slimy Mark Swanson and his fake tan had actually tried to get a sound bite out of me. Yeah—so much no.
"Um, I guess that's all," I replied.
His face made me ache all over, that beautiful face that only a few hours ago, I'd covered with kisses in the parking lot at the Chalet. I blushed in embarrassment, knowing it had been nothing but a sham to him, a way to keep me from blowing his cover, just like when we'd been sneaking into the circus.
I blushed deeper when I realized all of it had been real for me. My feelings for Patrick were real. He'd been so sweet and kind while I'd sobbed on his shoulder under the big top, so selfless to help me track down Piper and listen when I'd complained about Joey and Katie and stupid Scott. So many times, he'd held me and kissed me and made me feel safe. Alive. Wanted—more than anyone ever had.
"We'll need a statement from you," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Come to the station tomorrow when you can."
I swallowed and nodded miserably. "Okay."
Fear gripped my heart when he was about to walk away. I needed to say thank you, but I wasn't sure for what. For saving my life? For giving me the exposé any journalist would kill for? I opened my mouth, but only a timid squeak came out.
After reaching a huddle of cops, Patrick gestured toward me, and a deputy sheriff walked my way.
"Detective Loomis asked me to escort you to your vehicle," the officer said. "Immediately."
* * *
News traveled fast, and by the time I got to the office, Chip was there, along with a dozen reporters and senior editors. The threshold to Eric's office was barricaded with yellow police tape. The cops had already ransacked the place.
Along with my laptop and a six-pack of Diet Coke, I locked myself in one of the empty offices and wrote my piece. Even though it was way too long when I finished, I emailed it to Chip, ready for him to shoot it back for major rewrites.
Ten minutes later, he knocked on the door. "I had to make some changes to your article," he said, sticking his head through the opening.
I nodded, completely used to editors altering my work. They had carte blanche, of course.
"I thought of another headline and switched two of the paragraphs."
When he didn't go on, I asked, "That's it?"
He walked into the office. "It was as solid as you can get. Informative without being dry, editorial but not sentimental. You were the perfect eyewitness reporter." He smiled. "We're going to press now. This morning's will be our first early edition since September eleventh." He sat on the side of the desk. "The entire front page, and we're using thr
ee of the pictures you took." He chuckled, probably amused by the shock on my face. "Excellent work."
I stayed at the office until the first batch of the special early edition rolled off the press. I spread the front page across my desk. There was a photo of me under the byline. I didn't know where they'd found it. It must've been on my phone.
At five a.m. I peeled off my wellies and tiptoed in my stocking feet to my bedroom, asleep minutes later.
* * *
As a native Californian, my first impulse after being startled awake by the sensation of the room shaking was to duck and cover, roll to the floor and under the bed or doorframe. But when my eyes flew open, it wasn't an earthquake but Piper bouncing on the foot of my bed.
"The phone hasn't stopped ringing."
"What?" I yawned and blinked at the clock. "Piper, I've been asleep for three hours."
My sister found both my hands under the covers and pulled me up like I was a drunk rag doll. "It's all over the news. Everyone's seen the paper."
"Huh?"
"Where's your cell?" After yanking me to my feet, she spotted my phone on the floor next to my mud-soaked spy outfit. She grabbed it and tapped the face. "How could you let the battery die?"
"Piper." I rubbed my eyes. "I have to give a statement at the sheriff's station this morning, and I'm really dreading it. So what are you—"
"Then come on." With my cell and its charger in one hand, Piper hauled me to the bathroom, plugged in my phone, turned on the shower, and threw a towel at me. "Mare, look," she said, displaying my phone. My sleepy eyes went wide as I watched the number of texts, emails, and missed calls fill the screen. "This is what you've been missing."
I reached for it, still unbelieving, but she held it above her head. "In there." She pointed at the steaming shower. "I'll read them aloud." She stepped up on the closed lid of the toilet and perched herself on top of the tank, legs crossed. "Strip," she ordered. "Then lather, rinse, repeat."
Chalk Lines & Lipstick: a Maren Colepepper cozy mystery (Maren Colepepper Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
