Don't Look Back

by Christie Craig

  “Out here.” He stormed off.

  Brie saw the two detectives look at each other skeptically. Then they walked out, shutting the door behind them.

  She looked at Detective Acosta. “What’s that about?”

  “Beats me.” He smiled. “I’m just glad I’m not included.” He went over and collected the bag that held Carlos’s things. He pulled out the phone and went back to his desk. “You could have confided in us two months ago.”

  “There wasn’t a lot to tell then.”

  He looked at the phone, then glanced up and stared at her, as if deciding to say something or not.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Connor might have overstepped by cuffing you to Mildred’s desk, but he did it so he could come in here and go to bat for you. He’s the one who suggested we overlook the car incident and work with you. Remember that when you two go back into the ring for another round.”

  * * *

  Connor stared at Sergeant Brown’s bulldog face. The man was raging. “I went to piss. To piss. Granted it takes me a little longer these days, but it wasn’t that long. And when I got back, I had five messages. Five!”

  He held up his hand. “One from the chief. One from the mayor. One from the governor. And one from an old army buddy of mine.”

  An old army buddy? Was Eliot Franklyn behind this? Connor’s gut said yes. He looked at Brown’s fingers wiggling in the air. “That’s four,” Connor said, obviously not too tired to count.

  Brown jerked his hand down. “Hell, by the time I get to my office I’ll bet the pope’s called.” He pointed a finger at Connor. “I do not know what you did to stir up this shitstorm, but it was your name that was brought up. Please tell me you haven’t arrested her.”

  “No,” Connor and Mark said at the same time. Then Connor continued, “We hadn’t planned on arresting her.”

  “Good,” Brown said.

  “But I don’t understand,” Connor added. “Didn’t you assign this case to us because we wouldn’t take any shit?”

  “I don’t want you to take any shit. But I don’t want shit raining down on me either. Solve the case. But don’t start World War Three. Oh, hell! Maybe I should get someone else to take care of this.”

  “We got it.” Connor and Mark spoke at the same time.

  “Make sure you do.” Brown started to walk off, then turned back around. “What did she do anyway?”

  The two of them looked at each other.

  Brown’s frown deepened. “I know that look. You’re saying I don’t want to know, right?”

  They still didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, hell.” He groaned. “Do we at least have any leads on the shooting?”

  “A few,” Mark said.

  “Okay. But put this to bed ASAP before more shit flies.” He stormed off.

  Connor reached for the door, but Mark stopped him. “Look, you’re going to have to play nice.”

  “You’re the second person to say that to me today. I always play nice.”

  “Then play nicer…” He pointed to the door. “And I mean with her. We need her help.”

  “I’m not the one taking potshots. Did you see how smug she was when she pulled her gun out? Do they train their agents to do that?”

  “You cuffed her to a desk.”

  “So she wouldn’t run off.”

  Mark shook his head. “I swear, I give it a week. If you two haven’t killed each other, you’ll be screwing like rabbits.”

  Connor let out a sound, that was half laugh, half disbelief. “She’s not my type.”

  “Right,” Mark said then, “you want me to work with her instead? I’ll go with her to the hotel.”

  “No.”

  Mark chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brie liked how Pierce and his partners worked. Breaking down the investigation. Debating the case without anyone pushing back. The camaraderie among them reminded her of how she and Carlos worked. And since these guys functioned as a team, she needed to be a team player.

  “Look, Detective Pierce. About what happened with the gun,” she said as she followed him to his car.

  “It’s Connor. And if you’re apologizing, I accept.”

  Apologizing? Could this guy not be annoying? She weighed her words carefully. “I wasn’t going to apologize exactly. I still think you were wrong to—”

  “And I think you were wrong to lie to me. Nevertheless, if you’re wanting to sweep it all under the rug, I’m willing.” They got in his car.

  “Fine.” She pushed the word out. “Consider it swept.”

  He drove off. “So how did you end up working for the FBI?”

  She focused on the passing buildings outside the passenger window. “That’s a long story.”

  “I like long stories.”

  “What made you want to be a cop?” She threw out the diversion question, not caring if he realized her intention or not.

  “Okay. I’ll go first,” he said. “I learned in college that I was good at stopping big guys.”

  “Stopping big guys from doing what?”

  “Getting a football.”

  She lifted a brow. “You played college ball?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You didn’t try for the NFL?” The question slipped out before she realized it might hit a nerve.

  “No. I was injured my second year of college. Tore my ACL and Achilles tendon. I saw several other guys with similar injuries return to the game, but they couldn’t live up to their own standards. Several even reinjured themselves trying. They hated the sport after that. I decided if I couldn’t chase the football, I’d chase criminals, and changed my major to criminal justice.”

  “How’s the injury now?”

  He shifted his leg up and down under the wheel. “Don’t even notice it. But I’m not getting hit on the field.”

  “You regret giving it up?”

  “It’s not my biggest regret.”

  And what is? The question sat on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. Questions like that either got you locked out, or invited in. She wasn’t sure either was a good thing. They needed to get along, not to be able to finish each other’s sentences.

  He refocused on the road. She thought the conversation was over, but his deep voice filled the car again. “Actually, when I look at the guys who made it and played, I’m sure I did the right thing. One of them has a brain injury and can barely feed himself, and several of the others can hardly walk without pain pills. I kind of like feeding myself and moving on my own two feet.”

  “Brawn and brains, huh?” she said without realizing it sounded like a compliment.

  His lips twitched, as if he’d almost smiled. He stopped at a red light and glanced at her. “Your turn.”

  Was he implying she needed to answer his earlier question? The silence in the car thickened. She decided to play, to a point. “I turned someone in to the FBI. They needed help getting evidence, so I assisted. When it was over, they asked me to work for them.”

  “You must have done a bang-up job.”

  “They didn’t complain.”

  “You still had to go through training. I mean, Billy, the cop from last night, isn’t an easy mark.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  She realized the complications in that. “Is he upset that I’m getting a pass?”

  “He will be. I’m hoping his boys quit hurting before I have to tell him.”

  A touch of guilt hit. “I did what I thought I had to do.”

  “I’ll make sure to tell him that.” Silence hit again. “How long did you train?”

  “I took a few classes, but I was taught to defend myself before the FBI.”

  He stared at her, as if she was a puzzle he was working on solving. “Eliot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said he raised you. Are we talking foster care?”

  After a couple beats of silence, she ga
ve in. And why not? A Google search by someone with mediocre intelligence would give him the same info. Her attempted kidnapping when she was fourteen had been all over the news. “He was my bodyguard.”

  His head swerved.

  “Ever heard of James Ryan?”

  “The big-time reporter?”

  She exhaled. “He was my stepdad. He traveled the world, and Mom and I traveled with him.”

  He let that soak in. “That must have been an adventure.”

  “Yup.”

  He glanced at her as if he heard everything she didn’t say. “Didn’t he pass away several years back? I remember seeing some documentary about his stories.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry.”

  She gazed out the window. She could only talk about her past for so long before it tried to suck her back in. And she had no time for the past.

  Right then two police cars with lights and sirens blaring flew past them.

  “That’s odd,” Connor said.

  “What?” When she looked up, she saw the two cop cars pulling into the Marriott where they were heading. “Coincidence?” She looked at him.

  “Maybe.” He took the first parking spot, and they hurried into the lobby.

  Connor pulled his badge as he met the first officer. “What happened?”

  The officer eyed his credentials. “A maid was attacked.”

  “Is she okay?” Brie asked.

  “Paramedics have been called. But the manager just told us the victim was having problems with her husband.” The officer was waved over by another patrolman.

  “So most likely a coincidence,” Connor said. Brie wasn’t completely convinced.

  Connor flashed his badge to the tall, suited woman working behind the registration desk. “I’m going to need the key to Carlos Olvera’s room.”

  “Is this about the incident?” the hotel employee asked, as her regulation customer smile faded.

  “We don’t think so,” Connor said.

  Brie spoke up. “What floor is Carlos Olvera’s room on?”

  The woman tapped on her computer keys. “Third.”

  “And what floor did the incident with the maid occur?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Third.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” Brie asked.

  “It just happened.”

  “Have they caught him?”

  “Not yet,” the woman said.

  Brie looked at Connor. “He could still be here.”

  “Give me the key,” Connor insisted.

  “What’s the room number?” Brie asked.

  “Three twenty-two.”

  Brie took off while Connor waited for the key. She saw the elevator door close. “Where are the stairs?” she asked a bellman pushing a luggage cart.

  He pointed, and she ran in that direction.

  She’d only gone up a few steps when a slamming door echoed above her. Footfalls with the same intensity as hers pounded down the stairs toward her. Could it be the maid’s attacker?

  Stopping, she leaned in and looked up. Between the stair’s spindles, she made out what looked like a pair of jeans. The heavy footfalls continued downward.

  She pulled out her Glock. A man, medium height, with light brown hair came around the turn and stopped when he spotted her—or when he spotted her gun. Brie noticed his bruised face. Too colorful to have just happened. She’d bet her best bra that Carlos had caused that damage.

  “FBI,” she announced as she lifted her gun.

  The man tore back up the stairs. Brie raced after him. She heard a door bang open and she pushed herself faster. Heart thundering in her chest, she grabbed the door and shot into the hall on the second floor.

  She looked left, then right, following the patterned carpet, which could make a person dizzy. She saw no one. Then clattering noises came from a restaurant to her right. She bolted through the door. “Where did he go?” she asked a hostess.

  She pointed to the balcony. Brie darted between the tables, calling excuse me every time she bumped into a customer.

  When she got out on the second-floor deck, people were standing up and looking over the railing. Another restaurant was below, and several patrons were standing around a table that had been upended. Plates and scattered food littered the patio floor. Then she saw her perp running for the street.

  This was the piece of kangaroo crap that put Carlos in a coma. She glanced at the seven-foot drop and made an assessment. Risk was low. Odds of catching the bastard high. Without thinking, she went over. Her feet slammed against the hard tile floor. Jarred, but injury free, she called out, “FBI.”

  She ran for the street, but stepped in a puddle of refried beans and went down, landing boobs first in a plate of enchiladas.

  Bouncing up and swiping off a blob of guacamole, she took off. When she got to the street, she saw the guy turning the corner. Pulling a pound of oxygen into her lungs, she ran faster.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Brie was still jogging down the Anniston streets, looking for the man. The cool October breeze whisked past. While it was probably only sixty degrees, sweat poured down her back.

  People strolled the sidewalks, window-shopping. She passed coffee shops, ice cream parlors, salons. A car pulled beside her and the window lowered.

  “Get in.” The deep, familiar voice reached her ears.

  She cut her eyes at the burgundy Malibu—Connor’s car. Bending her knees, she rested her palms on her legs and drew in air. Her heart thumped in her chest and she looked across the street. “He could still be around.”

  “We have officers combing the area.”

  “They don’t have a description,” she blurted out. Rising up, she looked through the glass front of a sandwich shop to confirm her perp wasn’t there.

  “Yeah, they do. Several restaurant patrons took pictures of him. Get in.”

  Yanking the door open, she crawled in with an overwhelming sense of defeat. The air felt too thin. Her chest walls too thick. “How did you find me?”

  A smirk appeared on his lips. “You kidding? We had at least five reports of an angry white woman covered in”—he looked at her and inhaled—“chicken enchiladas, running through the streets.” He grinned. “Now I’m starving.”

  God only knows why laughter escaped from her. But two seconds later, her throat tightened, and her eyes stung. She’d let the piece of crap get away.

  “It was him. He had bruises on his face and Carlos had bruises on his knuckles. That no-good piece of slime is the reason my best friend is barely hanging on to life.” Her voice cracked and something in her chest followed suit.

  The humor faded and something soft filled his green eyes. That look felt like her kryptonite. Her eyes stung harder, her heart beat faster.

  “We’ll get him,” he said softly.

  “Don’t,” she snapped.

  “Don’t what?” He looked puzzled.

  “You know damn well what! Pretend you care.”

  His expression tightened. “If you just need someone to be angry at right now, I’ll take a hit for you. But for the record, I’m not faking jack shit! I lost a partner three years ago.”

  She looked away from the indignation darkening his eyes. “You’re right. I’m—”

  “Forget it.” His words didn’t sound like they came from anger, but from honesty.

  “No. I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m exhausted and I know it’s not an excuse but…I’m not normally a bitch.”

  Their gazes met—and held. He blinked. “Forget about it.”

  Two, three seconds had passed when she asked, “Did he get into Carlos’s room?”

  “Yeah. We have someone dusting for prints. Did this perp have anything with him as he ran?”

  “Not that he couldn’t fit in a pocket,” she answered. “The maid okay?”

  “She’s beat up, but paramedics said she’d be okay. Juan’s going to the hospital to confirm the guy you chased is the same one who attacked her.
”

  She nodded, then dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Fatigue threatened to unravel her sanity. “I can’t believe I let him get away.”

  “I’d say you gave it more than a college try. You jumped off that balcony.” He stopped at the red light and cut her a look. “Which was stupid, but kind of badass.” He offered her a smile.

  It was soft. Gentle. A moment of humor meant to heal, to lighten the mood, and make this somehow more tolerable. It almost worked. But she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d lost her one chance at catching this guy.

  She looked out the window. Like a computer with a spinning cursor, her mind was in some kind of a buffering mode. She continued to stare at the street, seeing­—but not really seeing—the businesses as she passed. Clothing shops, bookstores, a bank, and…

  A bank. She turned to Connor. “Cameras?”

  “What?”

  “There have to be cameras outside the hotel. We just passed a bank and they’ll have cameras, too. We might get footage of what he’s driving. A car is easier to find than a person.”

  “You’re right. I’ll make some calls and get someone to start checking into that.”

  She nodded. “We also need to see if Carlos’s car is at the hotel.”

  “Mark’s checking on that.”

  Connor’s phone rang. He grabbed it and checked the number. “It’s Mark.”

  He took the call. “Yeah. I found her.” Pause. “What time? No. I will.” He hung up.

  “What?”

  “Olvera’s car wasn’t at the hotel. Mark’s putting out a BOLO. And Agent Calvin wants to talk to us. You too. He’s coming to the office at three.”

  “That gives us time to hit the crime scene and then the hospital.” She needed to visit Tory.

  Connor’s gaze lowered to the front of her blouse. “You have part of an enchilada stuck to your…I have some shirts in the backseat that I was dropping…They aren’t clean, but they’re cleaner than what you’re wearing. And they’ll swallow you, but you’re welcome to one.”

  Chapter Eight

  Connor watched Brie snag a shirt from the backseat. Before he knew what she was doing, she’d yanked off her leather jacket and shirt. He quickly looked away, but not before the image of her in a soft lacy bra had tattooed itself on his brain. And not before she caught him looking.