Secure Location (7 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed.

It was the second time she’d accused him of being ridiculous. The first had been after he’d said she wasn’t in charge of who got to vacation in Texas. Hell, she hadn’t even begun to see ridiculous. He had enough in him to go all night. Had been saving it up for the past year.

But given that he didn’t want to listen to her defend Boy Scout Scott, he tempered the urge. “Can we just go to bed? You, in there and me, in here. Separate but equal. Very politically incorrect.”

She massaged her temples and it reminded him of the day she’d had. She had dark shadows under her pretty eyes.

He shut up.

She let out a breath that she had evidently been holding. “All right,” she said.

He almost sighed in response. He was dead on his feet and he didn’t want to fight with her. Had always hated to see her upset and had been miserable the few times in their marriage when they’d argued about something stupid. She grabbed her dry cleaning out of the closet and the sack that had her other things. “My clothes go with me,” she said. Then she left, partially closing the door between the two rooms.

It opened again after just seconds and she tossed his bag into the room. It toppled end over end, before stopping when it hit the wall. It made him smile. Now who was being ridiculous?

He brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face. Then he took his shirt off. He left his cargo shorts on because a good cop never got caught with his pants down or off. He pulled back the bedspread, turned off his light and lay back on the big bed.

It took her four minutes and eighteen seconds to turn her light off. Once she did, he could hear her sheets rustle. What the hell was she wearing to bed? She hadn’t bought pajamas. So, maybe it was one of her fancy new bra and panty sets.

Or maybe she was naked.

He closed his eyes and rested his forearm across the bridge of his nose, as if that would somehow be an extra level of protection against the images that were playing in his head.

* * *

M
EG WOKE UP
when she heard a knock on the door. She jerked up in bed and saw Cruz standing in the doorway between the two rooms, a coffee cup in hand. He was dressed in a fresh shirt and cargo shorts and his hair was still damp.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Seven,” he said, his voice husky. “You slept in your dress?”

Cruz Montoya was one of the sexiest men to walk the planet and he turned her on. Always. Still. And there was no way in hell she was letting him know that and double no-way that she was going to act upon it.

So she’d gone to bed with the only armor she had. “I thought the room might be chilly.”

“You can always turn down the air-conditioning,” he said.

“Whatever. I better get dressed.”

“Coffee?” he said. “I just made a second pot.”

Cruz loved coffee. And drank way more than he should. On the weekends it hadn’t been unusual that he’d get through two pots before she ever poked her head out of the bedroom. “No, thanks,” she said.

“What?”

She’d given up coffee when she’d moved to Texas. The smell of it had kept too many memories fresh. “It bothers my stomach,” she said.

“Have you seen a doctor?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“So that he could tell me
good job?
Drinking coffee is a vice, not a virtue.”

Cruz rolled his eyes. “Once you get showered and dressed, I’ll walk you to your office. By the way, I called your boss early this morning.”

“Why?”

“’Cause we’re buddies.”

She rolled her eyes this time.

“Because I wanted him to know what happened on the River Walk. I suggested that he assign a security guard outside your office. He said to consider it done.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

She wanted to argue that it was a waste of a resource but knew it was probably useless. Cruz had convinced Scott and there was no way she could persuade both of them. “Then what are your plans?”

“I’m going to track down Mason Hawkins, Tom Looney and Troy Blakely.”

She’d known Hawkins and Looney pretty well. They’d been at their jobs when she’d gotten hired. She knew Blakely less well. He’d come a couple months after her and his tenure had been short. She’d had no bad interactions with any of the men, hadn’t even been there when they’d been fired. Yes, she was administration but surely that wasn’t enough for one of them to hate her.

But somebody did. If it wasn’t hate, it was something close. The only person who really had a reason to hate her was Cruz and she knew he was innocent.

Well, Cruz wasn’t the only person. It was crazy to think that this had something to do with what had happened in Maiter but she couldn’t afford to be stupid about it. She was definitely going to need to talk with Detective Myers about what had happened twenty years ago.

“What are you going to say to Hawkins, Looney and Blakely if you find them?”

“When, not if,” he said. “I’ll find them. And I’ll have a reasonable conversation with them unless I think they’re involved in this. Then I’m going to start cracking heads.”

“Cruz,” she warned. “Detective Myers made it clear. He’s the investigator on this case. Not you.”

“Then he better stick close to my heels,” Cruz said. He backed away from the doorway. “Knock when you’re ready.” He pulled the door halfway shut and Meg heard the television click on.

She got out of bed, pulled the tags off her new underwear and grabbed a freshly dry-cleaned suit. She carried everything into the bathroom with her.

Thirty minutes later, she knocked on the adjoining door. Cruz didn’t look startled at the interruption and she had the sense that no matter how quiet she’d been in her room, that he’d heard and tracked every movement.

He saw too much. It made it even more important that she hide her thoughts from him.

“That’s a nice color on you,” he said, looking at her peach suit.

“Thank you,” she said. She couldn’t remember Cruz ever saying anything about her clothes. He’d always just let his eyes do the talking. Heat. Awareness. Want.

This felt awkward. Maybe because it seemed awkward for Cruz. Like he was saying it because he should and Cruz never did or said anything just because he was supposed to.

They left the room and walked toward the elevator. “You going to eat breakfast?” he asked.

“We keep some fruit and bagels in the executive break area. I’ll just grab something later. If you’re hungry, several places along the River Walk serve breakfast. Plus there are more choices up on the street level.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he said.

When they got to her office door, she saw Tim Burtiss sitting on a chair outside the door. He stood up when he saw them. “Good morning, Meg,” the man said.

“Hi, Tim.” She turned to Cruz. “This is Security Officer Tim Burtiss. Tim was our associate of the month in January. Tim, this is my ex-husband, Cruz Montoya.”

Cruz shook the young man’s hand. Tim was practically beaming and Meg was happy that she’d been able to slip in something about his recent recognition. Not only did it make the young man feel good but hopefully it would also send a subtle message to Cruz that this was one of the hotel’s best security guards. He didn’t need to worry.

It must have worked because Cruz didn’t ask him about his experience, to drop and give him twenty or to demonstrate that he knew how to use the baton that was clipped to his belt. All he said was, “I need to touch base with Meg’s secretary and then we can talk.”

Great. He wanted to meet Charlotte. Which would prompt the woman to ask about a hundred questions and she’d have answers for none of them.

Meg opened the door. Charlotte sat at her desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, a telephone in the other. She looked at Meg, then at Cruz, and told the person that she’d have to return the call. She put down the telephone with a soft thud.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” Meg said. She took a deep breath. “I wanted to introduce you to Cruz. Cruz Montoya. My ex-husband. Cruz, this is Charlotte Anderson.”

To Charlotte’s credit, she showed almost no reaction to learning that her boss had been married but had never mentioned it. Perhaps her lip quivered just a little and her eyes widened but other than that, she was the perfect example of professional control, as always. “Mr. Montoya,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Cruz is a police officer in Chicago and has been in contact with Detective Myers regarding the incidents.” Meg shifted her attention to Cruz. “Charlotte is aware of the telephone call, the note and the damage to my car and apartment.” She deliberately didn’t mention the River Walk shove and was grateful when Cruz didn’t, either.

“Charlotte pulled together the list of names that you reviewed,” Meg added.

“Thanks,” Cruz said. “Security Officer Tim Burtiss is going to be sitting outside the door. He’s going to need to know who is expected. Can you work with him on that?”

“Of course. Anything to keep Meg safe.”

“Great. Here’s my cell number in case you need to reach me.” He reached for a yellow sticky pad on Charlotte’s desk and scribbled down the number. He turned to leave and Meg followed him. Tim Burtiss stood up again.

Cruz nodded at him. “Charlotte will touch base with you on who is expected today. Nobody else gets past you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t let her leave. If she tries to, tackle her,” Cruz added.

The young officer looked at Meg and the tips of his ears got pink.

“He’s kidding,” she said.

“Only a little,” Cruz responded. He turned toward her. “Be smart, Meg. Please.”

She was going to be in her office with a guard. Cruz was the one who was going to be out, asking questions, maybe making people uncomfortable. He was the one who needed to be careful. She put her arm out, touched his shoulder.

He jerked back.

Had he felt the heat? The spark of connection? “Right back at ya,” she said, knowing it was lame. But the need to touch, the need to hold him tight, was almost overbearing.

He nodded. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She watched him walk away.

“Promise?” she whispered so quietly that even Officer Burtiss couldn’t have heard her.

Chapter Five

Cruz ate an egg-and-potato burrito and used his smart phone to research A Hand Up. Meg might be convinced that the jailbirds had no reason to harm her but Cruz had been putting scum away for enough years that he didn’t have as much faith.

He found a contact number, made the call, and worked his way up the chain of command until he was talking to the head honcho, Beatrice Classen. He introduced himself as Meg’s husband.

“I didn’t realize that Meg was married,” she said.

He thought about correcting her but decided it might work against him. “I need to talk with you about some problems that Meg has been having.”

He went on to explain about her car and apartment and the recent incident at the River Walk. When he suggested that he was concerned about former prisoners working at the hotel, Beatrice did two things in quick succession. She expressed her concern over Meg’s safety and vehemently denied that her clients had anything to do with it.

He hadn’t expected her to do anything else. She’d probably worked hard to get businesses to sign on to employing those recently released from jail. A business might be willing to write a check to support the program but to actually get them to agree to offering up a job, that was probably a tougher sell. Beatrice no doubt didn’t want some husband coming along and spoiling things.

“Mr. Montoya, I’d be happy to assist in any way that I could,” she said.

“I’d like to review their files,” Cruz said. “And see a photo ID.”

“It’s sort of a bad day. We’re getting ready for our banquet. I need to be at the LaMadra Hotel most of the day. I was just getting ready to leave my office.”

He wasn’t waiting. “I’ll meet you at LaMadra in a half hour,” he said.

The woman paused. “I suppose I can bring the files with me,” she said finally, clearly resigned to the fact that this was one more thing she was going to have to squeeze into her day.

Cruz finished his breakfast, had another cup of coffee, and headed for the hotel.

The place was even bigger than the BJM, with more glass and shiny steel. He asked a woman at the front desk where the A Hand Up banquet was being held that night and she pointed him toward the elevators. “Fourth floor,” she said.

He walked into the ballroom. Employees were setting up tables, arranging chairs, testing a sound system. Everybody ignored him, which really pissed him off. Not only because it was wasting his time but more important, it meant that any weirdo could come in and nobody would notice.

Cruz watched to see who might be in charge. There was a guy with a clipboard who seemed pretty intent upon barking out orders. Cruz tapped him on the shoulder. “Beatrice Classen?” he asked.

The guy pointed to the head table, where a woman wearing a bright pink sweat suit was jawing on some poor guy about the fact that the head table needed a skirt. As he got closer, it became apparent that the problem was that it needed to be ivory, not white.

“Ms. Classen?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“Cruz Montoya,” he said.

Her hair was thin and had lots of static electricity, making pieces stick out as if she’d poked her finger in a light socket. She probably weighed in at about two-fifty, making her almost as round as she was tall. “I have your information right here,” she said, pointing at a manila folder on the table.

He leafed through the photos. One Hispanic, one black and two white men. He studied the white men. They were full poses, not just head shots. “This guy looks pretty tall. You know his height?” he asked, holding up one.

“Well, everyone is tall compared to me, Mr. Montoya. However, I did hear him mention once that he was six-six.”

Cruz set it aside and picked up the other photo. “Tell me about this guy.”

“Oscar Warren. He was part of the first rotation so he hasn’t been at the hotel for several months.”

“What was he in prison for?”