Watch Your Back (55 page)

‘I hope I never have to again,’ Alec whispered. He closed his eyes. ‘God. That was . . .’

‘Terrifying?’ Clay supplied, as kindly as he could. ‘The first time I went out on patrol, my hands were shaking. After the bullets stopped flying, I was sick. A bunch of us were.’

‘I would have puked,’ Ethan said, ‘if I’d had anything in my gut to throw up. I was so nervous, knowing we were going out to actually fight, that I hadn’t been able to eat.’

Alec’s eyes flew open and he looked from Clay to Ethan and from the look on the boy’s face, Clay thought Alec might have been sick, too. ‘You’re serious?’ he asked.

‘Never more,’ Clay said. ‘There’s nothing heroic about the act of shooting someone, Alec. What was heroic is the consequence of your action. Cordelia is safe.’

‘And I’m standing here, breathing,’ Ethan added. ‘When I said thanks, I meant it.’

Alec’s cheeks darkened as embarrassed pride finally crept into his eyes. ‘You’re welcome.’

Ethan’s mouth curved sympathetically. ‘And when that poor pizza delivery guy stops hyperventilating, he’ll thank you, too.’

‘I want all the details about last night,’ Clay said. ‘I want to know how the security systems functioned down to the nth degree. But later. First I have a plate for you to run.’ He gave Alec the license plate from the Hyundai. ‘He was following us on the highway. I think he’d been there from the time we’d left the city.’

‘Did your Fed tail get this info?’ Ethan asked with a frown.

Clay was certain the Fed had, mainly because Novak hadn’t called him to ask for it. ‘Probably. Novak’s got a sharp eye. I didn’t want to discuss it with him in front of Stevie, because she doesn’t know I have the plate, but I’ll make sure he knows.’

‘I’ll get on it right now,’ Alec said, running back up the hill to the house.

When the boy was gone, Ethan turned to Clay with raised brows. ‘So, where is she? I’m supposed to meet her and take notes or Dana says I can’t come home. She says she’s been waiting too many years to meet the woman who drags you out of your rut.’

‘I’m not in a rut,’ Clay protested. ‘Not anymore.’

‘And we’re glad.’ Ethan clapped his hands once. ‘So, she’s in the barn with her daughter? Cute kid, by the way. Thinks you’re Superman.’

Clay felt his cheeks heat much like Alec’s had. ‘It doesn’t take much to impress her.’

‘Uh-huh. What do you plan to do with that plate information, once Alec digs it up?’

Clay started for the barn, Ethan falling into step beside him. ‘Exactly what you think.’

Ethan frowned. ‘Alone?’

‘Definitely not with you. I need you here. Protecting them. So, yes. I’m going alone.’

‘Fine. But I’m slapping a tracker under that SUV you’re driving. I want to know where you are, in case you get into trouble.’

‘That’s fair.’ Clay opened the barn door, found Izzy standing outside one of the stall doors, her eyes closed, her lips pursed hard. ‘Izzy?’

Izzy looked up, startled at first. Then she smiled and walked to meet them and he could see that her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. ‘Clay.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘For keeping her safe. For making this happen.’ She swallowed hard. ‘This is more than I hoped for.’

‘Me, too,’ he whispered back, then cleared his throat. ‘Where are your folks?’

‘Up at the house with Maggie and Emma, helping move storage boxes out of Maggie’s spare bedroom so that we can all stay here tonight. With Ethan, Alec, Paige, and Emma here, she didn’t have beds for everyone last night, which is why Mom and Dad and I went home and ended up missing all the excitement here.’

‘I offered to give them my bed,’ Ethan said, ‘but they said no, that nobody would sleep in “bags on the floor” on their account. I couldn’t make them stay.’

Izzy gave Ethan a commiserating look. ‘It’s they way they are. You can’t argue with them.’

Clay chuckled. ‘Stevie comes by her stubbornness honestly, then.’

‘That she does,’ Izzy said with a longsuffering sigh, then she smiled again, pointing to the stall where she’d been standing. ‘They’re in there. Go see.’

Clay found Stevie and Cordelia together, brushing the horse called Gracie. Stevie was intense in her focus, just as she was with anything that mattered. Cordelia’s face was as bright with happiness as a star.

They’re mine
, he thought, his heart ready to burst. His to take care of. Protect. To love.

Cordelia looked up at him. ‘Gracie likes Mama. See?’

Clay smiled down at her. ‘I can see that. Stevie, I need to talk to you for a minute.’

She gave the brush to Cordelia and stepped out of the stall and into his arms. ‘Be careful,’ she said, kissing his mouth hard, and above the sound of his pounding heart, he heard Cordelia giggle. ‘At least take Novak with you,’ Stevie added.

The kiss had distracted him. ‘What?’

‘You’re going to check out the car whose license plate you “didn’t see”.’

Beside him, Ethan snorted. ‘Busted, Slick.’

Stevie pulled away to offer her hand to Ethan. ‘You must be Ethan. Thank you for coming to help. I appreciate it more than you’ll know.’

‘I think I know,’ Ethan said, shaking her hand. ‘Clay’s been there for me enough times. It was my turn. Plus, Alec did most of the work.’

Stevie smiled. ‘So I heard.’ She turned back to Clay. ‘The license plate?’

Clay sighed. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me, but it was worth a try.’

‘I would’ve done the same thing. How long will you be gone?’

‘A few hours probably.’

She kissed him again, to Cordelia’s delight. ‘I’ll be here when you get back. Don’t get yourself shot and I’ll try not to get stepped on or squashed.’

‘Mama,’ Cordelia chided when Stevie returned to the stall. ‘Gracie is gentle.’

‘I hear you and I believe you, Cordy, but she is really big.’

Cordelia’s small voice wafted over the stall’s wall. ‘A dog isn’t nearly so big, Mama.’

‘No,’ came Stevie’s wry reply, ‘even one of Mr Tanner’s puppies, fully grown.’

Outside the stall, Izzy beamed and Ethan gave Clay a single nod.

Clay walked away with a smile on his face.

Baltimore, Maryland, Tuesday, March 18, 3.15
P.M.

Sam shut down his computer. The convenience store clerk killed by his father eight years ago left behind a daughter and a grandson. Their neighborhood wasn’t close to middle class, but it wasn’t the projects, either.

The boy’s mother had a misdemeanor record for shoplifting – she’d stolen food from the very convenience store in which her mother had been murdered. The judge gave her community service in a food pantry. After that, her life and her son’s life had improved. Someone had given the woman a job. She, like Kayla Richards, had gone back to school. Now the boy’s mother was a dental hygienist and they seemed to be doing all right financially.

When the dust settled and he knew who had motivated his father’s actions that day and why, he’d approach the woman and her son to find out how he could make restitution.

He had no idea what he’d say to her. Or to Stevie Mazzetti.

It looked like whatever he’d say, it wouldn’t be today. He put on a jacket and grabbed his keys before locking his apartment door behind him. He was meeting Ruby and Kayla and his sketch artist friend at the precinct at four. And then he’d see the face of the man who’d dragged him from the Rabbit Hole that night.

The man who was responsible for him waking up a day and a half later. Who’d probably killed his father. And who had somehow forced his father to kill three innocent people.

He walked out of his apartment building and – froze when a hand clamped on his shoulder.

‘We need to talk, Officer Hudson.’

Shit
. All these questions they’d been asking . . . He’d worried about the dust they were kicking up.
Fine. Bring it on. Just stay away from Ruby and Kayla
.

Twisting his body into a spin, Sam jabbed his elbow into the man’s gut, satisfied at the surprised grunt. Sam followed with a right cross, but the guy was ready, blocking him and sending him staggering back with a punch to the jaw that momentarily had him seeing stars.

Enough of this
. Sam ran up the steps, spun, and landed a kick solidly to the guy’s chest that had him staggering back. Sam drew his gun, unsurprised to see the man had done the same.

‘Drop your weapon,’ Sam said levelly.

The man smiled and it wasn’t friendly. ‘You first.’

Sam found his phone, blindly dialed 911, pausing before he hit send. ‘You can tell me what this is about, or I can call for backup. Either way, you’re not walking away without some kind of damage because I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

Malice glittered in the man’s dark eyes. He was maybe an inch taller than Sam, broad as a doorway, and held himself like a fighter. Or a soldier. He needed a shave but his dark hair was precisely combed, despite their scuffling. He also had a chest like a steel wall and a fist like a wrecking ball. Sam’s elbow was just getting feeling back in it and his foot was still numb. He had to fight the urge to check for missing teeth.

‘Well?’ Sam prodded. ‘Who sent you?’ He threw off some malice of his own as he came down the stairs, closing the gap between them. ‘And I swear to God, if you’ve touched either of the women, I’ll aim for something you’re really gonna miss.’

Confusion furrowed the man’s forehead, but his gun didn’t waver. ‘What women? I’m not after any women. I want to know why you were following Stevie Mazzetti this afternoon.’

Sam realized where he’d seen the guy. ‘You were with her at the police station today.’

The malice returned. ‘I’m with her just about everywhere she goes. Why the tail, Hudson?’

He’s Mazzetti’s bodyguard
. Sam remembered the black SUV’s quick exit off the highway. The driver had made his plates. Sam lifted his free hand, palm up. ‘I’m standing down. Please do the same.’ He lowered his gun until it was parallel with his leg.

The man did the same, but produced his own phone. ‘You haven’t called the cops yet. I’ll give you five seconds to tell me why you were following Stevie Mazzetti and then I’ll call.’

‘Go ahead. Have them contact Detective Fitzpatrick.’

The man’s eyes narrowed abruptly. ‘Have to admit I wasn’t expecting that.’

Before Sam could respond, another voice came from the shadows, dryly smug. ‘I could have told you that.’

Both Sam and the man twisted to look, then Sam’s eyes widened. It was like a scene from a comic book. From the shadows came a tall guy with white hair, wraparound shades, wearing a black trenchcoat that flapped in the wind.

The first guy’s eyes rolled. ‘Novak.’

Novak grinned. ‘Maynard.’

So Maynard was the guy with the iron fist. Sam frowned, trying to place where he’d heard the name, then remembered – Maynard’s home had been the one broken into on Sunday, the place where the bodies of the two cops had been found, their necks broken.

‘Took you long enough to get here,’ Maynard grumbled.

Novak shrugged. ‘I’ve been here for over an hour. You walked right by me.’

Maynard frowned. ‘Where?’

‘Hiding behind the dumpster. The trenchcoat is more than a fashion statement, you know. I blend into the dark.’

Sam shook his head. ‘Who
are
you?’

Novak approached, one hand holding his badge, the other holding his coat back enough to show he’d kept his weapon holstered. ‘Special Agent Deacon Novak, FBI and VCET. This is Clay Maynard, a private investigator working for Detective Mazzetti.’ He turned to Maynard. ‘Officer Hudson here filed a complaint this morning – for an assault on his person that occurred eight years ago. On March 14. He was drugged in a bar and woke up a day and half later in a strange hotel room with no recollection of the time he’d lost.’

Maynard frowned at Novak. ‘He lost March 15? What the hell?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Novak said. ‘And so did JD Fitzpatrick when he took Officer Hudson’s statement. JD said they specifically requested him.’

‘They?’ Maynard asked.

‘My attorney, Thomas Thorne,’ Sam said, ‘and my . . . friend, Ruby Gomez from the ME’s office, went with me when I filed the complaint.’

‘He was also accompanied by a witness to the assault,’ Novak said. ‘A Kayla Richards.’

‘Ruby and Kayla are the women you didn’t want me to touch, I suppose,’ Maynard said and Sam nodded. Maynard rubbed his neck. ‘The three of us should go somewhere quiet to talk.’

Sam looked from one man to the other. ‘Okay.’

Tuesday, March 18, 3.30
P.M.

Clay flexed his fingers as he sat on the sofa in Hudson’s living room. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with two ice bags. He tossed one to Clay before slapping the other on his own jaw.

Clay put the ice bag on his hand, wincing. ‘You got a jaw like a rock, Hudson.’

Hudson’s smile was not amused. ‘My mother always said I was hard-headed. Agent Novak, would you mind taking off your glasses? I like to be able to see a man’s eyes.’

With a shrug, Novak complied. Hudson’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Novak’s odd irises, then he, too, shrugged. ‘This day just gets stranger,’ he murmured. ‘Mr Maynard, to answer your original question, I was following Detective Mazzetti because I wanted to talk to her. Only to talk.’

‘How did you find her to follow her?’ Novak asked.

‘I was at the station this morning, giving Fitzpatrick my statement, and I saw her with him,’ Hudson pointed to Clay, ‘and a few other people. I knew I needed to talk to her, so I waited until those two left the station and followed.’

‘What did you want to talk to her about?’ Clay asked.

‘March 15, eight years ago. The day her husband and son were murdered. And the day I lost.’ Hudson paced his small living room, then stopped, turning to meet their stares head-on. ‘What I didn’t put in my complaint was that I woke up in that hotel room with a gun by my hand. It had recently been fired. I didn’t know what I’d done. I checked all reported crimes, checked hospitals for gunshot wounds, but nothing turned up.’

‘Where’s the gun?’ Novak asked.