Keep Her Safe

by K. A. Tucker

  “So, is this how it’s going to be between us from now on?” I roll my eyes mockingly, trying to cover for the fact that my hands are trembling.

  “It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” He grins against my mouth. “Why don’t you go back to bed? We have nowhere we need to be.”

  As much as that idea—with Noah lying next to me—appeals . . . “We’re going to The Lucky Nine today, remember? We talked about it last night.”

  He furrows his brow. “We did?”

  “No. But we are going.”

  “Okay.” A pained expression flashes across his face. “If you really want to.”

  “I do. And then we’re going to find this Heath Dunn guy.” My dad’s partner at the time of his death.

  “And why are we going to see him?”

  “Because he told investigators that my dad had been taking shady phone calls. We need to know more.”

  “Of course we do.” Noah doesn’t look too thrilled at that idea. “I told my mom’s secretary that I’d pick up a box of things from the station. We can ask her to look Dunn up while we’re there.”

  “Perfect.”

  His gaze drifts down to my mouth, settling there. “Yeah . . . perfect,” he whispers absently.

  I take a step back, out of his reach, as my lower belly is flooded with warmth, because I know where this is headed. “Go! Hurry up and get dressed. This motel is about a half hour away, so we—”

  The doorbell rings.

  He groans and throws his head back, his Adam’s apple jutting out. Long since a favorite male body part of mine, my fingertips itch to slide along the sharp curve.

  “Jenson again?”

  “No, he rings three times, like the impatient asshole that he is.” Noah heads for the door, and I trail behind, admiring the curves of his muscular back and shoulders.

  He peeks through the side panel of glass. “Speaking of assholes . . .” He unlocks and yanks open the door.

  “Rise and shine, campers.” Kristian’s flat tone doesn’t match his words. He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes doing a quick head-to-toe of my stained T-shirt and shorts from yesterday. He’s swapped his student garb for a pair of tan chinos and a white button-down. Still not how I imagined an FBI agent to look.

  Neither is showing up on our doorstep holding a tray of coffees. Presumably, for Noah and me.

  “What are you doing here?” Noah doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance as he scans the street.

  “I told you I was coming.” He nods behind him to a man who does fit my mental image of an FBI agent, wearing a navy jacket marked by the letters FBI. He’s leaning against one of two cars parked at the end of the driveway, talking on his phone. A large rectangular case sits by his feet. “That’s my evidence guy.”

  “Right. Give me a minute. Gracie . . .” Noah lowers his voice, his hand coasting over my hip as he edges past me, adding, “Don’t invite them in.” He heads for the safe in the pantry, where we’ve locked up everything.

  “So, Gracie—” Kristian begins.

  “It’s Grace.”

  “Oh . . . I see.” He smirks.

  “You see what?”

  “He’s the only one who’s allowed to call you Gracie.” His tone is dripping with insinuation.

  My cheeks flame. I don’t even notice when Noah calls me that anymore. “How about I worry about what Noah calls me, and you worry about why Dwayne Mantis pulled us over and threatened us yesterday.” I recap the five terrifying minutes, unease settling in once again. There was something about that guy—the way he moved, or the way he looked down at me, or simply the fact that I suspect him of murder and I’m clearly on his radar—that instantly put me on edge.

  Exactly what Mantis wants.

  By the time I’m done recounting the bizarre move by Mantis, all hints of humor are gone from Kristian’s handsome face. “Well, if he didn’t know you suspected him before, he does now.”

  “Good—maybe he’ll do something stupid.”

  “Pulling you over was pretty dumb.”

  “You know what wasn’t dumb on his part? Getting himself on the investigation team for my father’s death.”

  Kristian gives me a crisp nod of approval. “So you’ve read the report already.”

  “Front to back. And that’s not all we noticed.” I tell him about my mom’s statement, about the lack of video or my father’s missing gun being mentioned. “Shouldn’t those details have been included in there? It should have raised doubt, shouldn’t it? At least the missing gun should have.”

  He watches me curiously, but offers no opinion as he leans against the door frame.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “So? What do you think?”

  Those scrutinizing eyes flicker behind me before boring into my face. “I take you for a smart girl. Do you trust Jackie Marshall’s son?” he asks, his voice too low to carry down the hall.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Really? Because I wouldn’t. Not completely.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “But you think I should trust you, right? Why? Because you flashed a badge and then showed up here with coffees, playing the nice guy?”

  “Touché.” He holds out the tray of Starbucks.

  I ignore the offering. “Why shouldn’t I trust Noah?”

  Klein sets the tray down on the entry table beside the door. “For starters, he lied to the police in his statement. And then he lied to the FBI.”

  “To protect his mother.”

  “Who believed that her best friend was murdered and did nothing except leave me a drunken phone message shortly before shooting herself and sending her son across two states with a bag of circumspect money. Why would he protect a woman like that?”

  “Because she’s his mother.” Though I’ve caught myself asking that same question. “Besides, none of that has anything to do with Noah.”

  Kristian raps his fingertips across the door frame, the beat slow and precise. “Have you noticed how close he is to his uncle?”

  “He’s lucky to have family.” Even if I’m not a fan of that family right now. “What’s your point?”

  Kristian pauses as if reconsidering his next words. “If Dwayne Mantis set up and killed your father, or had him killed, he’d need help. The kind that usually comes from above.” He waits a few beats for me to process that. “Your father had a reputation for being a regular Boy Scout, so the evidence against him would have had to be overwhelming for people to buy it. I’m talking not a shred of doubt. That report? If it was missing key information to allude to another theory, I’m guessing it was because someone made sure it wasn’t included.”

  “Yeah. Mantis.”

  Kristian’s doubtful expression suggests otherwise.

  “Who then? The guy who wrote the report?” I hesitate. “Jackie Marshall?”

  “The chief at the time, George Canning . . . Did you know he and Silas Reid go way back? I’m talking way back. Did Noah tell you that?”

  No. “Why do you assume Noah knows?”

  I get a casual shrug in response.

  Kristian’s right—I am a smart girl, and I can peg what kind of guy he is—the kind that plays on people’s vulnerabilities to get under their skin and, inevitably, get what he wants. He wants me doubting Noah. I just don’t know why.

  I glance over my shoulder to see the hallway still clear. “Stop talking in riddles. What are you getting at?”

  “Canning has a lot of influence in this city. More than most politicians. Dig deep enough into how the mayor got elected, how the city manager was chosen, and you’ll find Canning’s name come up. People like that set warning bells off inside my head, especially when everyone loves them. And the public loves Canning. They think he’s the best damn police chief this city has ever had. Hell, they’re about to give him a bronze statue. Do you know why that is?” Kristian arches an eyebrow. “He fought against gangs and drug crimes and got results.”

  “And that’s bad how?”

  “Because he did i
t by using guys like Mantis—guys who don’t have issues breaking rules along the way to get what they want. Guys whose moral compasses are skewed.”

  “How do you know Mantis is like that?”

  “A hunch.”

  I sense it’s more than a hunch, but I also sense that I’m not going to get an honest answer. “And you think Canning knew what kind of person Mantis is?”

  “Do you really think someone stays chief for that long by being oblivious?”

  I ignore his condescending tone while I quickly fit pieces together in my head. “So you think the chief knew my dad was innocent.”

  “Maybe. What I know is that Jackie Marshall thought your dad was innocent. And I also know that Canning’s approval of her is the reason she made chief. And I also know that if a story about Canning’s super-cop stealing money in a drug bust ever got out, Canning’s legacy to this city would be different. I doubt he’d be getting a bronze statue.”

  “So the former chief of police had reason to want my father dead.”

  “Or at least to look dishonest and untrustworthy.”

  Holy shit. What if Klein is right? What if Mantis killed my father with the chief of police’s protection? “So are you going to ask him?”

  “Who, Canning?” Kristian chuckles. “You don’t let a suspect know that they’re a suspect until you’ve already caught them. You don’t show your cards too soon.”

  The opposite of what I did with Mantis. I couldn’t contain that spark of rage, couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I showed my cards. Hell, I didn’t just show my cards. I held them up, face out, and let Mantis get a good, long look at them.

  “Canning’s got connections from all angles to help protect him. One of them happens to be the district attorney of Travis County.”

  My curiosity outweighs my apprehension. “So you think Noah’s uncle will protect Canning?”

  “I think he already has.” He leans forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Noah may be a good guy, but unless you’re one thousand percent sure that he’s going to choose you over his mother and his uncle, I wouldn’t get too caught up in whatever’s going on between you two. I’d spend my time keeping an eye and ear out for anything important.”

  “Is that a warning?” What does Klein know that he’s not telling me?

  “That’s good advice. Take it.”

  Noah strolls down the hall then, the gym bag dangling from his fingers. “I wrote down all the names that Betsy might be going by, and her birth date. We’ve already checked for arrest and death records.” He holds out the envelope, his tidy writing scrawled across the front of it. “The gun holster is inside the bag.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Noah . . . finally. Bill will take care of collecting this. I take it your fingerprints are all over the holster?”

  Noah nods. “And the money.”

  “He’ll make note of that. And as soon as you’re done with him, you two need to head to our office to give your official statements. The address is on my business card, but just in case you lost it . . .” He produces a card from his wallet and hands it to me. “Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. No? Too young to appreciate that joke? Fine. Get there right away. This is now an active federal investigation. You are not to discuss this with anyone, including the district attorney.” He levels Noah with a look of warning. “If I find out that you have, I’ll nail you with obstruction. Anything else I need to know?”

  “Dwayne Mantis pulled us over yesterday and—” Noah begins.

  “Gracie’s filled me in already. Sorry—Grace. I’d stay away from him, if I were you.”

  No worries there. “I need that picture of my aunt back when you’re done. It’s the only one we have of her.”

  Sympathy flashes across Kristian’s face, so fast that I wonder if I imagined it. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Better let you get to it, then.” Noah has one hand on the door, looking ready to slam it in Kristian’s face. I’m not used to this sharper side of him. It’s nice to know he has one, and even nicer to know he’s never felt the need to use it on me, no matter how abrasive I’ve been toward him.

  Even if Kristian is just doing his job, I can’t help but feel like he’s doing me a personal favor. Maybe I should be nicer to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Noah watches Kristian through narrowed eyes as the FBI agent strolls down the steps and path, stopping to talk with Bill.

  “You really don’t like him.”

  “He rubs me the wrong way,” he admits, a brooding frown creasing his forehead.

  “At least he’s smart enough to bring the expensive coffee when it’s this early.”

  “He’s trying to convince us that he’s a good guy.” Noah smirks, echoing my earlier accusation as he collects the tray, handing me mine.

  “And you don’t think he is?”

  “He could be,” he admits reluctantly. “But I have this gut feeling that he’s after more than just Mantis’s head.”

  I hesitate. “Like whose? The chief?”

  “There is no chief. Well, there’s the interim, but he wouldn’t be after him.”

  “No, I mean the one who was chief when my dad died,” I say as casually as I can.

  “Who, Canning?” Noah seems to think on that. “Maybe. I don’t know how far he’ll get with that. Everyone loves that guy.”

  Not everyone. Not Klein. “Have you met him?”

  “He was at Silas’s when I went for dinner last week.” Noah shrugs. “He seems like a good guy. You know, one of those people who throws out an open invitation to his ranch and means it.”

  “He actually did that? Invited you out?”

  “Yeah . . .” He frowns. “Why?”

  If I repeat what Kristian said about Canning’s motives for wanting my dad gone, will Noah then go and tell his uncle? And, if his uncle is as good friends with Canning as Kristian suggested, will he warn Canning that Kristian is on to him? “You don’t let a suspect know that they’re a suspect until you’ve already caught them.”

  Then why the hell would Kristian tell me in the first place? He knows there’s something going on between Noah and me, so he has to also assume I’d tell Noah about this. Is he testing me?

  I can’t figure that guy out. It’s like I’m playing a game with him, where the stakes are high but I don’t know the rules.

  “Gracie?”

  “No reason. So, where is this FBI office? Is The Lucky Nine on the way?” Or Paradise Lane, as the motel is now called.

  “Not really . . .”

  I take a sip of my coffee, peering up at him with my best attempt at begging eyes. “Can it be?”

  He grins. “Maybe. But you heard Klein. He said—”

  “Do not pass go.” I shrug. “We’re not. We’re passing a seedy hooker motel.”

  Noah rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll stop.” He points at Kristian’s car as it pulls away. “And, for the record, I do not trust him.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around,” I mumble under my breath as Bill the FBI evidence guy climbs the steps.

  * * *

  The vibrant feel of Austin’s downtown is long gone by the time we spot the green neon sign that towers over Paradise Lane, advertising daily, weekly, and monthly rates. The shady motel is located on the far outskirts of Austin’s lower-class suburbs, past the plain strip malls and sketchy chain gas stations, beside a freeway where a steady stream of cars buzzes by, off to other parts of Texas.

  Noah turns into the parking lot, his SUV dipping and jumping over the uneven pavement and potholes. Ahead of us are three long beige buildings, positioned in a U shape—aptly named Building One, Building Two, and Building Three, according to the signs. Each is lined with dirty pea-soup-green room doors.

  It feels as oppressive as The Hollow.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asks gently, pulling into a spot near the reception lobby.

  “I have to. Don’t you feel like we have to?” I s
can the door numbers. I can’t see Room 116 from here.

  Noah’s gaze drifts over the sparsely filled parking lot. “It’s weird, isn’t it? That he died here.”

  “Of all places.” I climb out of the SUV. “Do you think they’ll let us into the room?”

  “Depends on how good you are at talking,” a familiar voice calls out from behind me, making me jump.

  “Don’t you have people to see?” I snap as Kristian saunters toward us. How did we miss his sedan?

  “I was going to say the same thing to you.” His steely eyes lock on Noah, whose glare looks sharp enough to pierce skin. “What are you two doing here?”

  “I wanted to see the place where my father died. We’re heading in to give our statements right after this.”

  “And what do you hope to get out of it?”

  “Closure.” Is that even possible? I doubt it—not until I see Mantis, and anyone else who was involved, punished. “What are you doing here?”

  Klein’s brow quirks. “Investigating a murder . . . remember?”

  “Where’s Tareen?” Noah asks, looking around.

  “On his way. Come on.” He begins heading for the lobby door, warning over his shoulder, “Let me do the talking.”

  “Good luck with that,” Noah murmurs under his breath, a smug smirk curling his lips.

  We follow him inside, Noah behind me, his hand on the small of my back, as usual. I can’t believe it used to bother me. I get it now—it’s a protective gesture, and not in the “Gracie can’t take care of herself” way, but an “if someone’s going to get hurt, I won’t let it be her” way.

  The lobby is cramped and depressing, the blinds covering the front window soiled with years of dust and bent from prying fingertips. The low hum of voices from the ancient TV competes with the constant rattle of a vending machine in the corner. It looks like they’ve attempted to update the space, laying new green faux-marble linoleum tiles down over the old beige ones. But they didn’t cut the pieces properly, and the beige is still visible along the walls.

  There’s a staleness to the air that I can’t pinpoint—a combination of burnt coffee, musty cardboard, and tobacco, lingering from years gone by when it was acceptable for a receptionist to check you in while puffing on a cigarette.