ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  She ran to him when he came out of the hallway, her eyes searching his face.

  "Easy," he said, laughing. "What were you expecting? Mayhem?"

  "I… He has a horrible temper, you know. I was worried."

  "Don't be. I think we understand each other now."

  She let out a sigh of relief. "In that case, I'm glad."

  He leaned over and kissed the pert tip of her nose. "About what?"

  "That you … wanted there to be an understanding."

  Shea ducked her head, afraid that he would recognize the feeling behind her words. She knew she was clinging to every precious sign that this was more to him than just a casual affair, every hint that there was a future for them. She was trying desperately not to assume too much, but it was very hard when she was so full of emotions she'd never felt before. She hadn't known it was possible for her to feel this way about someone, was almost frightened at how quickly this complex, sometimes elusive, man had become the most important thing in her life.

  "I want there to be a lot more than that," he said softly, tilting her head back with a gentle finger under her chin, and she blushed at how accurately he'd read her.

  "I'm glad," she said finally, simply, thinking it the greatest understatement in history. "You'll be here tonight?"

  "Of course." He looked suddenly wary. "You're not going to wear that red dress again, are you?"

  She laughed. "Why?"

  "Because I don't think I can stand it." Then his mouth twisted ruefully. "Hell, I can't stand it anyway."

  She giggled. "Then sit."

  "Oh, feeling cute, are we?" he growled. "Maybe a little midnight swim is in order."

  "Only if you're there." Her eyes were smoky with promise, telling him exactly what kind of swim she had in mind. His body clenched suddenly, fiercely.

  "That," he said huskily, "is an idea with great potential."

  He was still—somewhat painfully—dwelling on that potential when he arrived home, still sans his erstwhile satellite. He was halfway up the stairs when he remembered the files. He'd wanted to go over what Quisto had brought, in detail.

  I wonder, he thought as he spread everything out on a table, if this is what a schizophrenic feels like. Like two different people, each one functioning on his own level, and only running into trouble when the two collided. When he was with Shea, when the case was out of his mind, he was one person, and times like now, when the case was occupying most of his mind—minus the part that seemed permanently labeled with her name—he was another. But when the two overlapped, he wasn't sure who he was anymore. All he knew was that he'd never felt a pain like this tearing, trapped agony, and he didn't know how much longer he could endure it.

  He made himself concentrate, reading the surveillance log yet again and the reports forwarded by his friend in Miami. Then the backgrounds compiled by Metro-Dade police, then the documentation on de Cortez's activities there. Last, he once more read the reports on Sean Austin's brutal murder, and Elena Austin's suicide nearly twelve years later. He went over it, over it, and over it again, until his eyes were bleary and his mind screamed in protest.

  He finally yielded to the weariness long enough to take a shower and change clothes. Then he fixed a sandwich, popped a soda and sat down again. And began again. Damn, it was here somewhere, he could just feel it. His mind started to drift, back to the scene in de Cortez's office. With a grin he remembered the bookends' hasty departure, one of them clutching that briefcase as if it had held pure gold.

  Wearily he yanked his mind back to the matter at hand. They'd spent hundreds of hours, watching and waiting, for nothing. Wouldn't it just be a joke, he thought grimly, if de Cortez had truly decided to go straight? If the big dealer had truly left the business? If the shipment they were expecting, waiting to catch him with, never came? If they kept running around in circles while de Cortez laughed his head off?

  Then an image of cold, dead eyes formed in his head, and he knew different. The man hadn't changed. His experience in Miami had just made him more cautious. And why should he rush? In the best estimates of Metro-Dade, he'd left the Sunshine State with over two hundred million dollars, leaving behind that much and more in confiscated property, cash and cocaine that could never be traced to him.

  He reached for the log again, even knowing it would tell him nothing new. That was what was the most frustrating—this damned feeling that wouldn't go away, that the answer was staring him right in the face and he couldn't see it.

  The jangle of the phone startled him. He went to it quickly, hoping it might be Shea in spite of knowing she would be busy getting ready for the night's shows.

  "Chance?"

  "Yeah." Definitely not Shea.

  "Hey, it's Jeff. Listen, I don't know if it means anything, but we just got something that might be a break."

  Chance went very still. "What?"

  "I'm not sure, really. Just something … different. On one of the phone taps. I tried to find Romero, but I couldn't track him down. I know you're kind of in limbo, but …do you want to come down and hear it?"

  "Ten minutes."

  He barely remembered to scoop up the clutter on the table and stuff it into the desk before he raced down the stairs.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  «^»

  Shea ran her fingers over the keyboard, searching for the right combination of notes. She tried another riff, but she didn't like that, either. She was finding it hard to concentrate.

  The others, except for Eric, who sat on the edge of the stage adjusting his guitar, had gone out for an early dinner before the first set. She wasn't the least bit hungry. Still running on donuts, she said to herself with a little laugh.

  "He's been good for you, hasn't he?"

  She turned to find Eric watching her intently. "Is it so obvious?" she asked with good humor.

  "You've changed since you first got here. You were so quiet all the time. Like you were really sad about something."

  "I was." She smiled softly. "And you're right. He is good for me."

  "I know. You were always beautiful, but now you're … glowing."

  "Why, Eric! Are you trying to flatter me?"

  "I save the flattery for people who need it. You don't."

  "No." She blushed. "I get enough of it already."

  "Good." Eric grinned. "I like a man who's got sense enough to know when he's got a good thing."

  "And I like a handsome, talented man who isn't afraid to be a friend."

  "Now who's flattering who?"

  "No flattery, just truth."

  Eric looked embarrassed but pleased. "He's crazy about you, Shea. Anybody can see it."

  "I hope so."

  She tried not to think about the things she still didn't know about Chance, the secrets he still held inside himself. She felt as if she were out of control, hurtling toward some unknown destiny, a destiny he somehow held in his hands. It was a strange, unsettling feeling, and when it crept in on her like this, it made her more than a little uneasy.

  "Sometimes it's scary, it got so strong so fast," she said softly.

  "Hey, sounds like a song. 'So strong, so fast," he intoned soulfully.

  "Just tune the guitar," she said with a laugh, turning back to the keyboard, shaking off the mood.

  "All right, all right. Shea?"

  She looked back over her shoulder. As if he had sensed her doubts, Eric said softly, "If anything goes wrong, you know you've got a friend, don't you?"

  She gave him a warm smile. "Yes. Yes, I do." And this time, when she turned back to the keyboard, she found the notes she wanted.

  * * *

  "I know it doesn't sound like much—"

  "No. You're right. It's out of sync."

  "That's what I thought. He's never said anything like that before."

  Chance reached for the rewind button on the recorder, hit it, then hit the play button. After a moment, the words came again, in de Cortez's voice.

  "Yes, everyth
ing is ready, everyone will be here. It will be a very big day. Most profitable for everyone."

  That was it, one little variation in one phone call among all the phone calls they'd been listening to for weeks. But it was the first, and so far the only, time de Cortez had ever mentioned money. And this meant, apparently, big money. Chance knew what it would take for de Cortez to consider something "profitable."

  "Do we know where the call came in from?"

  "Local. I got the number, but I haven't called the phone company to back-trace it yet."

  "Don't. One of his pet tricks in Miami was to have plants in the local phone company operations. That's how he knew the feds were onto him there, and he got out before they could pin anything on him."

  "Is there anything special coming up at the club that he could be talking about?"

  Chance quit staring at the recorder and shifted his gaze to the young detective who had been in the van the first day he'd seen Shea. When he didn't answer right away, the young man shifted uncomfortably.

  "Look, I didn't mean anything. I just … that agent keeps talking … and you are working the sister, aren't you? I thought you might know."

  It wasn't his fault, Chance told himself. If it was anybody's, it was Eaton's. "It's all right." He took a deep breath. "I don't know of anything. But when you find Detective Romero, make sure he hears this, okay?"

  Jeff nodded, relieved.

  "And if you happen not to see Eaton," he added pointedly, "it wouldn't break my heart."

  Jeff grinned. "I'll manage to miss him."

  "Thanks."

  He left the office and was on his way back to the car when he ran into Lieutenant Morgan.

  "No tail today?"

  Chance shook his head. "They know I made them. I think they may have given up."

  "Keep up the precautions for a while longer anyway."

  "Right." He hesitated. "I … saw de Cortez this afternoon."

  Morgan's expression told him Quisto had not let anything slip about his confrontation. The lieutenant looked startled but not angry, so Chance quickly gave him an edited version.

  "What's your estimation?"

  "I'm more sure than ever that he's just biding his time." And that it's in front of my nose if I could only see it, he added in silent frustration. The nagging feeling that there was something obvious he was missing wouldn't go away.

  Morgan nodded. "Stay with it." He looked at Chance consideringly. "Are you all right?"

  Chance stiffened. "Fine."

  "Take it easy. It's your friend asking, not your boss."

  "In that case," Chance said dryly, "I'm screwed up."

  "Irreversibly?"

  "Depends."

  "On?"

  "Lots of things. Timing. Trust. Faith."

  Morgan nodded slowly. "Anything I can do?"

  "Yeah. Pull me out."

  "I can't, Chance. You know that. You're our best shot at the inside."

  "I know. I was kidding. I think."

  Chance opened his mouth to tell Morgan about the taped conversation, then shut it again. If he told the lieutenant, the lieutenant would be obligated to tell Eaton, and that was something Chance definitely did not want to happen. Not yet, anyway, not until they determined if it really meant anything. Eaton was too damned ready to go off half-cocked, and this tiny clue might be the last little bit of pressure on the trigger. Eaton was a fool, and Chance wanted him under control as long as possible.

  What the hell did it mean? he wondered as he drove to the club. Or did it even mean anything? And what day was he talking about? Shea would have mentioned it if anything special had been on at the club, wouldn't she? He supposed he could ask—

  No, damn it! He wasn't going to pump one more bit of information out of her. She wasn't de Cortez's sister anymore, she was his songbird, and he wasn't going to do it.

  The doorman, who usually met him with a nod of recognition, tonight met him with a wide-eyed look of awe.

  "Something wrong, Danny?"

  "No, sir," the man said hastily. His eyes darted warily around, then back to Chance. "I just heard you had it out with the boss," he whispered. "Man, that took guts. He's a little—" he made a descriptive circular motion with a finger pointed at his head "—you know?"

  "He tell you not to let me in?"

  "Oh, no, nothing like that."

  Of course not. He couldn't risk any scrutiny, not with the "big day" coming up. Whatever it was. A shipment? A November snowfall in Marina del Mar? His eyes narrowed suddenly as he looked at the doorman.

  "Anything coming up here soon, Danny? I heard somebody talking about something special going on at a new club in town, but I didn't hear where. Here, maybe?"

  The man's forehead creased. "No, not that I know about, man. Don't need special things, not with Miss Shea packing them in like this."

  Interesting, Chance thought as he found a table up front, though not necessarily conclusive. But after the scene in de Cortez's office, he'd half expected to be persona non grata here. That he wasn't might mean nothing. Or it might mean that de Cortez just had too much on his plate right now to deal with his little sister's lover. It might mean that the one little inconsistent note in the one little conversation was the break they'd been staying up nights for.

  He saw Eric and the others take the stage, and then Shea. The sight of her hit him like a kick to the solar plexus. She hadn't worn the red dress, but he was at a point where it didn't matter much anymore. He was convinced if she came out in a gunnysack it would be just the same.

  Not, he thought wryly, that what she was wearing could in any way be classified as a gunnysack. It was a clinging knit jumpsuit, her usual red, with a six-inch-wide white band at the neckline that was pulled down off her slender shoulders, leaving them bare and tempting. The contrast of the long sleeves that came from beneath the wide band made her shoulders seem even more naked, and Chance thought he was going to be lucky to make it through the evening without a replay of last night's episode in her dressing room.

  Just the thought made his body heat as if struck by a torch. He'd never been so out of control, never been so crazy. He'd taken her standing up, backed against the wall, still completely dressed, for God's sake. And he'd loved it. And from every sign, so had she. Innocent little Shea had loved it.

  He heard the usual talk flowing around him in the moments before she started to sing. Envious or admiring comments from the women; appreciative, hungry, even lewd ones from the men. He wanted to throttle them all. She was his, and he didn't want any of them leering at her, thinking about her. He was glad she didn't like this, because for damned sure he didn't. He'd make sure she didn't do it again, ever.

  Unless she wanted to, he amended silently. If she really wanted to, or needed to, to try out new material as she'd said, he supposed he could live with it. He just wouldn't like it much.

  It didn't hit him until the first sweet, crystal notes of her song began to rise. When it did, it was more of a blow than the first sight of her had been. He'd been speculating about the future as if they had one, together. He'd let himself dream, and decorated his foolish dream with her beautiful presence. He'd let himself fall into the trap of thinking beyond the moment, when he knew that moment was all they really had.

  Oh, God, Shea!

  For a moment he thought he'd groaned it out loud. He sat there, the soaring sound of her voice washing over him, wanting to scream out his anger and frustration. Why, damn it? Why now? Why did he have to meet her now, like this, why was she related to that slime, why was he a cop? He entertained these and a million other whys that clawed away at his guts like-the talons of some merciless bird of prey.

  He realized he was shaking, so badly he had to clench his fists in an effort to stop. He felt as if everything were closing in on him, as if he were caught in some lifeless desert gully with a flash flood bearing down on him, carrying boulders big enough to crush him with ease.

  It was a feeling so strong he hadn't quite shaken it by th
e time the last set was over, the accolades of the crowd had rained down on Shea, and he'd met her in the hail.

  "You didn't come back between sets," she said, looking at him a little oddly.

  "I didn't dare. It would have been a replay of last night in there."

  She stopped just inside the door out of the hallway into the narrow alley to the parking lot.

  "Would that have been … so bad?"

  "Damn it, Shea, don't say things like that." He shoved open the door and tugged her outside. "You don't know what it does to me."

  "I don't?"

  He grabbed her then, pulling her hard against him. His hands slid down her back to her slim hips, pressing her close.

  "That's what it does to me," he said harshly, knowing she had to feel him against her stomach. "It makes me want you right here, right now, and to hell with the world."

  He didn't wait for an answer, he just took her arm and headed out of the temptingly empty alley.

  He wished the BMW wasn't an automatic. He could have used the release of slamming the car through the gears. It was hard to vent your emotions when the car shifted smoothly of its own volition, when it wanted to, when all you wanted was to red-line it before giving it the next gear and jamming it to the floor again.

  By the time the iron gates of Hagan's home swung open, Shea knew something was very, very wrong. Chance was tense like a tightly strung wire in the seconds before it snapped. He'd barely spoken on the drive here, just as he'd barely spoken through the light meal they'd had at a small Italian restaurant that invited quiet confidences. After a while she had subsided into silence herself, tired of trying to carry the evening alone.

  She wondered what on earth had happened since this morning. Something obviously had. She hadn't seen or talked to him, so it couldn't be anything she'd said or done. At least she kept telling herself that. He was so wound up, it could be anything. When she asked, all she got was a short, sharp "nothing," and a continuation of the silence.

  When he opened the door for her, his grip on her elbow as he helped her out of the car was like a vise. She winced and pulled away.