Watch Your Back (38 page)

‘I hope I did the right thing,’ she said. ‘In telling Thorne to talk to you, I mean.’

‘You did. Thank you. Thorne says I can trust you. Are you up for some adventure?’

Her dark eyes sparkled. ‘Always. Lead the way.’

Chapter Nineteen

Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Monday, March 17, 2.30
A.M.

R
obinette hunkered down among the pines at the edge of Maynard’s stepfather’s property. His intel had been solid. It was amazing the things people would tell a stranger on Facebook.

There were several Facebook and webpages devoted to Sue Conroy, the mass-murdering woman who’d started her killing spree in Maynard’s stepfather’s beach house. The owners of those pages, the ‘Sue-bees’ as they’d dubbed themselves, were a talkative bunch.

They were also truly bat-shit crazy.

But helpful. Posing as a ‘Newbie Sue-bee’, Robinette had asked the more dedicated souls about the security measures St James had put in place. One of the devotees had gotten too close and tripped the motion sensor at the property’s edge. The young man had gladly shared the exact location of the line over which Robinette should not cross. Which, of course, Robinette had not.

The house was dark now. A study through his binoculars revealed no movement in the upper bedrooms. There was an SUV parked diagonally in the gravel drive leading to the house and he could make out a man sitting in the passenger seat and a woman patrolling the house’s perimeter. She was well-armed, holding an M-16 as comfortably as most women would a baby, and wore both a flak jacket and a helmet. She’d be hard to kill.
Good to know
.

There were no other vehicles visible around the house. Maynard must have parked whatever he was now driving in his garage. The PI wasn’t going to be able to drive that black Escalade anytime soon. The bullet-resistant windows had performed their duty, keeping his bullets away from Mazzetti’s and Maynard’s heads, but the vehicle had been trashed, nonetheless.

He set up his rifle, balancing it on its tripod, before wriggling to his stomach and testing the sight. He wasn’t the marksman Henderson was, but he could make a shot from this distance.

He checked his cell phone again, being careful to cover the screen to keep it from becoming a beacon to anyone who might be watching from the beach house.

He scowled. Still no calls, texts, or emails from Westmoreland. But his scowl turned to a smug smile when he saw the email from the man Lisa had arranged for him to meet at dinner. Dinner conversation had been banal, but the after-dinner chat behind the closed doors of Robinette’s study had been decidedly more interesting.

His dinner guest represented a group eyeing a congressional seat that would be opening soon, due to the impending ‘retirement’ of the sitting congressman whose alleged kickbacks would soon be exposed. The group had wanted to know if Robinette had any skeletons in his closet, other than the suspected murder of his wife, eight years before. They thought they could spin that to their advantage as long as no further allegations would be leveled.

He’d had a damn good reason to kill Mazzetti before, but he had even more reason now. Before, she might have inadvertently discovered evidence of his crimes while digging into all of those old police reports. If she saw him as a future political power, she’d go digging with the express purpose of ruining his chances for office, and ruining his life.

Monday, March 17, 4.00
A.M.

Clay crept down the stairs, trying not to wake anyone, especially his father. He hadn’t wanted to answer the questions that had been in his dad’s eyes. He definitely hadn’t wanted to repeat the words he’d said to Stevie as she’d sat on the swing.
I won’t bother you anymore
.

‘You’re supposed to be sleeping,’ Grayson murmured from the sofa, startling him.

Clay shrugged. ‘I can’t sleep. It was too noisy.’

Grayson’s brows went up. ‘I don’t hear a thing.’

‘Emma and Christopher were . . . busy.’ The rhythmic creaking of the headboard had been hard to ignore. And made him yearn even more for what he couldn’t have.

‘I guess I can’t blame them. When Christopher finally got here, saw Emma was all right with his own eyes? He cried. So did Emma. Even Paige got all sniffly. Almost put a tear in
my
eye.’

‘Almost,’ Clay said dryly.

Grayson grinned. ‘I only cry at replays of the Ravens winning the Super Bowl.
That
was a beautiful thing. Chris and Emma should finish being busy soon. Go back to sleep. You need it.’

Christopher and Emma had actually stopped rocking their bed over an hour before, but Clay didn’t want to admit that to Grayson.

‘I can’t sleep.’ Clay went into the kitchen, heard Grayson follow. ‘You want some coffee?’

Grayson slapped a hand on the cabinet door, keeping Clay from the coffee canister. ‘No and neither do you. What part of “You are sleep deprived” are you missing, Clay?’

Clay gritted his teeth. ‘I’m telling you it’s too noisy up there.’

‘And
I’m
telling
you
that I don’t hear anything. I swear to God I’m ready to knock you out myself, if that’s what it’ll take to make you rest. Your job is to guard Stevie.’ Grayson’s jaw was tight. ‘I don’t want to know what is or is not going on between you. It’s not my business. She is my business, though.’

Clay held his temper. ‘I know she’s your friend. But you need to back off.’

Grayson’s hand, still on the cabinet, clenched into a fist. ‘Paul was my friend.’

Clay let out a breath, thrown by the sudden change in topic. ‘I know. You worked together.’

‘We didn’t just work together. He was one of my best friends. I was a pallbearer at his funeral. And . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘And at Paulie’s. I promised Paul I’d take care of Stevie and the kids if anything happened to him. So even if she weren’t my friend, which she is, I’d still have a responsibility. If you can’t handle this job, I’ll hire someone who can. But you’re going on two days with no sleep and that’s going to dull your reflexes.
So go the fuck to sleep
.’

Clay massaged his neck. ‘She’s humming, okay? And it was making me crazy.’

Grayson’s fist dropped to the countertop, his face creased in a frown. ‘What?’

‘Cordelia must have had a bad dream, because she’s up there humming to her.’

‘Humming what?’

‘Hell if I know.’ Embarrassed, he turned on his heel and went into his father’s office.

Grayson didn’t take the hint and followed him again. ‘Clay, I’m sorry. I know whatever is or isn’t happening between you two is hard for you both. If it’s too much, there’s no shame in backing away. I’ll find someone who can be—’

‘If you say “be more objective”, you’ll wish to God you hadn’t,’ Clay interrupted quietly.

‘I was going to say “less affected”. But “more objective” works, too. And if you hit me, I’ll hit you back. Then Paige will hit us both and we’ll really hurt.’

Clay chuckled, his anger dissipating. ‘Fine. Make sense, see if I care.’ He leaned his head on the shelf over his father’s desk, his head throbbing. ‘I’ll try to sleep. I promise.’

Grayson clapped a hand on Clay’s shoulder, briefly squeezed. ‘Okay. I’ll leave you alone.’

‘Wait.’ Clay turned, a thought emerging from the fog in his brain. ‘Why did Paul Mazzetti ask you to take care of Stevie if something happened to him? Was he expecting trouble?’

‘No, nothing specific. I’d had a rough day – trouble outside the courthouse. Nothing like the day in December,’ he said quickly. ‘No shots were fired. But I’d been unsuccessful in getting a conviction in a rape case. I was upset and not paying attention. The victim’s father was outside, waiting for the defendant to emerge and talk to the reporters. The father had a gun, waved it around. Pointed it at the defendant, pointed it at me, then at himself.’

‘Tense.’

‘Yeah. One of the cops outside the courthouse came up behind the father and took the gun. The father didn’t struggle. He didn’t really want to shoot anyone, but that he’d pointed the gun at me left me rattled. Paul was older than I was, had been a prosecutor longer. He and I went out for drinks and he got me calmed down. He admitted he was also scared of retribution. He’d started wearing Kevlar and carrying a gun in his car.’

‘Was he wearing Kevlar the day he was killed?’

‘Yes. He took the first shot to the chest. Got back up after the shooter killed the cashier. The bastard shot Paul in the head.’

‘Was he being threatened?’

‘No. He didn’t have anything on his plate that had his spidey senses tingling.’ Grayson said the words sadly, bitterly. ‘We still investigated the possibility. Every case he’d tried, was in the middle of, or was about to try. The most likely suspects had alibis. Then the cops caught the guy who did it. It was some punk with no tie to Paul. Just a guy robbing a convenience store.’

‘Did they find the gun?’

‘In the guy’s sock drawer. He had no alibi. Claimed he’d gotten drunk and woke up in a strange hotel. Nobody could corroborate. Claimed he was innocent, but they all do. After he was in custody, we focused on Stevie. She was pregnant and grieving. Silas Dandridge was a fucking bastard, but he was there for her in a way none of us could be. He was her partner and he kept her going, kept her eating, kept after her to take care of her baby. Then her brother Sorin read Emma’s book, met her at a book signing, and introduced them. It was Emma who pulled her out of the depression, gave her the tools to go on.’

‘Did you know they’d remained friends?’

‘No, not like they have. Stevie’s extremely private about a lot of things. So was I, before Paige. There were things in my past I never told my friends or family. Not even Joseph and Stevie. So if she wants to keep parts of her life private, I’m the last person to criticize.’

Clay nodded, considered everything he knew about Stevie and all that he didn’t. He focused his attention on the wall where his father had hung pictures of his boat, of the groups he’d taken out on chartered fishing trips. So many smiles.

‘Did she ever have another . . . ? Did she go out with . . . ? Never mind. It’s not my business.’

‘You’re asking if she ever had another man in her life. If she did, she kept it secret. But I’m not sure how she would have. Between her job and Cordelia, there wasn’t time for a relationship. You’re the first one who’s gotten under her skin. If that makes you feel any better.’

It didn’t. Not really. ‘Thanks.’ Clay didn’t move, didn’t turn. Kept his eyes on his father’s photos until he heard the sound of Grayson’s footsteps fade away. Then he moved to follow. Maybe he’d try to sleep again. Maybe Stevie would have stopped that damn humming. He sighed. Maybe he should let Grayson find someone else to—

Clay froze, his eyes on one of his father’s photos. It was the two of them together, on the deck of his boat. His mind whipped back to the video his home security cameras had taken of the second intruder. Mr Backpack. The man had knelt on Clay’s bedroom floor, picked up a photo from the debris and stared at it. Then he’d lifted his gaze to . . . what?

To the boat. The model he, Tanner, and Tanner’s father had made together, years before. Tanner had bought the
Fiji
with that old boat in mind.

Cocksucker had smashed it into smithereens. But Backpack had recognized the significance. Clay leaned forward until he was inches from his father’s photo.
Fuck
.

The name of the boat was partially visible. He thought he’d gotten rid of everything that could link him to his parents in the event anyone ever broke into his house, like Cocksucker and Backpack had done. But he’d missed this.
Dammit
. How had he missed this?

Could his lapse lead them here?

‘Highly unlikely,’ Clay said, as if saying it aloud would make it so. But whoever was after Stevie had killed too many people for him to take the chance.

Stevie and Cordelia had to be moved. Now.

Monday, March 17, 4.35
A.M.

Stevie lay awake, her head aching. She hadn’t slept at all. She’d simply held her sleeping daughter as close as she could without smothering her. Listening to each breath, each murmur as Cordelia dreamed. Stroking her hair and kissing her forehead the one time Cordelia had awoken with a start, her little body going ramrod stiff as she trembled from the terrors of her nightmares.

I’m here
, Stevie had whispered, now knowing her daughter dreamed of Stevie’s death in addition to being held herself at gunpoint by Silas Dandridge the year before.

Then she’d hummed a lullaby she hadn’t had the courage to hum when Cordelia was small. She hadn’t allowed herself to remember the tune for eight years, not since the last time she tucked Paulie in, kissed him goodnight and turned off the lights.

Never dreaming she’d never have the opportunity to do so again.

The tune had been sung to Stevie by her grandmother in Romania, soothing her when she had bad dreams. It had soothed Paulie as well, sending him into sleep faster than anything else.

Tonight . . . the tune had not come easily, the memory of holding her little boy so fresh it might have been yesterday instead of eight years ago. At first she’d had to force the notes from her throat, but it soothed Cordelia just as it had Paulie, so she’d kept humming. Soon her little girl had drifted back into sleep, leaving Stevie far too much time to think.

Of course, her thoughts had turned to Clay who lay asleep on the other side of the wall.
I won’t bother you anymore
. His words left her empty. Lonely. Confused.

Stop thinking about him
. Easier said than done. He’d insinuated himself into her life and now she couldn’t imagine him not in it, which was exactly what she’d feared would happen.

You fraud. This hasn’t been about worrying that Cordelia would get attached.
Her daughter already thought Clay hung the moon.
This was about you worrying that
you
would get attached
.

I’m not just a fraud. I’m a coward
. And her cowardice had broken a good man’s heart.

The bedroom door creaked open and Stevie stiffened, going from brooding to instantly alert, gauging how quickly she could get to her weapon and flick off the safety.

‘Stevie?’ Emma whispered. She was dressed. And wearing body armor. ‘Wake up.’