Bait (22 page)

For a while, at least.

But then again, McCabe's hunkiness quotient—and she had to admit that crouched all shirtless and buff beside her, he was looking pretty good—might be clouding her judgment. And, like running, spilling all to the FBI would be the equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on her life: When the smoke cleared, nothing recognizable would be left.

Including Creative Partners. Including the Brehmer account.

Yes, she wanted to live. But she also wanted her
life.

Anyway, the FBI couldn't keep her alive forever. Sooner or later, they would get everything they wanted out of her and she would cease being the flavor of the month. Then she would be left to manage on her own—and the Mob would be waiting.

The Mob was like an elephant—it never forgot.

Before she did anything, anything at all, Maddie decided, she needed to get on the phone and call her good friend Bob and see what the hell was going on. Not that he would tell her if he had been lying, of course. But it was possible—maybe even likely—that the word to back off had not yet filtered down through the ranks to the hit man.

If that was the case, she meant to make sure it did.
Pronto.

The wail of a siren made her lift her head again.

“Here comes the cavalry,” McCabe said on a note of extreme irony, looking in the direction of the sound, which seemed to be growing louder by the second. Maddie realized that they were all gathered around her now: Wynne, Gomez, Gardner, and Hendricks. And, like her, they were all looking down the street, where flashing blue lights were just coming into view.

As suspected, the lights were headed their way.

Just what she needed, Maddie thought dismally:
more cops.

BY THE TIME the local police had left, along with the ambulance whose crew had treated Maddie's wound when she had declined to be taken to the hospital, it was full morning. The heat was starting to get oppressive. A dog barked in the distance. A motorcycle roared past on the street. Maddie was safely tucked away in her apartment with Gardner playing guard dog. Now wearing a white T-shirt he had pulled out of his bag in the back of the van, and his jeans, McCabe watched the last police car drive away, then turned in time to catch the eye of the thin, fortyish, dried-up looking woman who had popped out of the house briefly earlier, wearing her robe, to say something to Maddie, then popped back in again, and was at that moment walking down the back steps, eyeing him with obvious reservations. A neighbor, McCabe assumed. She had short blond hair and a long nose, and was now dressed in floral capris, a white blouse, and sandals. McCabe endured the nervous glance she gave him as she passed stoically.

At one point, drawn by the police car and ambulance, quite a few neighbors had crowded around, but when nothing more of interest had happened, they'd dispersed by ones and twos to go to jobs or whatever until there was no one left. Except the woman who was now getting into her PT Cruiser, of course.

“No way that was random,” Wynne said, coming up beside him. Wynne was chewing his gum again, and the smell of grape Dubble Bubble combined with the scent of honeysuckle from the hedges, which was particularly strong now that they'd been disturbed by being thoroughly searched, was an unfortunate mix in the ovenlike heat. Along with Gomez and Hendricks, Wynne had been scouring neighboring yards for evidence. So far nothing had turned up, not an indentation in the grass to show where the shooter had lain in wait, not a bullet lodged in a tree, nothing. Of course, the fact that they were all so tired by now that they were practically out on their feet might have something to do with it. The way he, personally, was feeling, he was pretty sure that he couldn't find a whale in a bathroom.

“Possible, of course, but I don't think so.” A random gunshot—apparently such happenings weren't unknown in the area—had been the local yokels' preferred explanation. Sam understood, of course. As a solution, it involved a hell of a lot less paperwork. But he didn't believe it. If nothing else, it was too much of a coincidence, and he had stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago.

“You think he'll be back?” Wynne had a twig caught in his hair, Sam noticed, and his shorts and hula-girl shirt looked like he'd slept in them for a week. The whites of his eyes pretty much matched the red of his shirt, and for the first time since Sam had known him, he was able to see the beginnings of curly, gold fuzz on Wynne's chin. Since Wynne rarely had to shave, that was significant. It told him they'd been working flat-out for a hell of a long time.

“Oh, yeah.” Sam had been thinking about that. “I don't think we could scare this guy off if we tried. If he made us—and he might or might not have, depending on how fast he got out of here and how far away he was—I don't think it's going to make any difference. I think he's going to keep coming after her until either we catch him or she's dead. Hell, he might even like the idea of trying to kill her right under our noses. He seems to get off on knowing we're right behind him.”

The thought of just how close Maddie had come to being dead still had the power to weaken his knees. They'd been pulling into the lot when her windows shattered. One second she'd been sitting there behind the wheel of her car, and the next her windows had exploded and she'd fallen out of sight. Christ, he'd thought she was hit. Hit worse than a gash on her shoulder. Hit as in
dead.

He didn't like remembering how that had made him feel. Way worse than it should have, considering Maddie Fitzgerald's role in his life.

Okay, reality check: She had no role in his life. Except as the object of a surveillance operation.

Never mind that she had silky soft skin and big take-me-to-bed eyes and smelled of—what was it?—strawberries?

His lip curled. Now there was a true romantic for you. Think of a girl, picture food.

“Think we ought to pull her out of here, take her into protective custody or something?” Wynne asked. “That was close. Too close.”

Sam had been thinking about that, too.

“She can't stay in protective custody forever. Sooner or later, she'll get cut loose. And unless we've caught the bastard by then, he'll be waiting.”

“Who the fuck
is
this guy?” Wynne's frustration showed in the kick he aimed at a rock on the asphalt. His exhaustion showed in the fact that he completely whiffed.

Sam had to smile at the stunned look on Wynne's face. But something was niggling at the back of his mind, something that if he wasn't so tired, he thought he might be able to shape into a point of significance. His smile faded.

“The thing is,” he said slowly, “this guy's not trying to keep what he's doing a secret. He's been taking us right with him all along. He wants us to know where he is. Just as long as we stay a step behind.”

Gomez and Hendricks came pushing through the bushes at the back of the parking lot just then, both looking slightly the worse for wear. Gomez had lost the jacket and tie, and his short-sleeved white shirt was untucked and bore several obvious smears of dirt. Hendricks's tan dress slacks had a rip in the knee, and, Sam saw as he drew closer, the tassels to one of his shiny brown loafers was missing.

“Damn big-ass dog in a backyard about half a block down,” Hendricks said by way of an explanation, seeing where Sam's gaze focused. “I had to vault the fence.”

“Thing got his pants leg, then his shoe.” Gomez was grinning. “Hey, Hendricks, are you having a bad day or what? First you take a knee to the nuts, then Cujo tries to eat you alive.”

“Shut up, Gomez.”

“Find anything?” Sam asked, before the situation could deteriorate.

They both shook their heads.

“Keep looking.”

Gomez grimaced. Then, at the expression on Sam's face, he burst into speech. “The thing is, Hendricks and I have been up all night. We need some sleep, bad. From the look of you guys, you do, too.”

Hendricks nodded. “It's not like there's anyplace around here we haven't searched. Anyway, those shots could have come from anywhere. A couple of streets over, even. I can tell you already, we're not going to find crap.”

Sam frowned. This case ate at him, and he hated to take a break from it, even for a few hours, because time was definitely not on their side. What it had turned into, basically, was a race. If the killer won—and so far he was winning big—somebody died. But Gomez had a point. In order to function at anything approaching maximum efficiency, they needed sleep. They had Maddie safe upstairs. The next clue to the identity of Walter could come at any time, but he didn't actually expect it before tomorrow at the earliest. That left open this brief window of opportunity where they could sleep, eat, do all the little things ordinarily deemed necessary to human existence.

Like shave.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Get out of here. I'll call you when I need you. I'll need the van back ASAP, though.”

“No problem.” Gomez looked at Hendricks. “I'll drive you to your car, then you can follow me back over here. Then you can take me to my car.”

“I'll drive you to my car,” Hendricks said. “It's closer.”

“You could start banging on doors asking the neighbors if they saw anything,” Sam suggested.

Gomez and Hendricks looked at each other.

“We did that,” Hendricks said. “Nobody saw crap.”

Gomez made a face.

“Okay, you drive,” he said to Hendricks, and then they took themselves off with quick
see ya'
s, clearly afraid that Sam would find something else for them to do if they gave him time to think about it. Minutes later, the van pulled out of the lot.

“So, what's the plan?” Wynne asked, still beside him.

“You mean we've got a plan?” Sam's voice was dry. His eyes skimmed over the parking lot. Maddie's Camry, shattered windows and all, remained where she had parked it, not far from where they were standing. Other than that, the lot was empty.

“We were going to stay undercover and keep Ms. Hot Bod under surveillance,” Wynne prompted him. Sam was getting used to the sound of gum smacking in his ear now. He was even starting to find it kind of soothing.

Not.

“Ye-a-ah.” Sam drew it out. Gomez had started referring to Maddie as Ms. Hot Bod after the full-body wrestling match he had engaged in with her in the airport parking lot. Wynne and Hendricks had picked it up, much to Gardner's loudly expressed disgust. Sam didn't doubt that Maddie would have a problem with it, too, if she ever heard it, but, hey, the truth was, it was apt. “I'd have to say that under the circumstances, that's no longer operational.”

“Since she made us,” Wynne said.

“Exactly.”

“So?”

“So we forget the undercover bit and just keep her under surveillance.”

Wynne stopped chewing and looked at him. “How do we do that? She knows we're here.”

“We enlist her cooperation,” Sam said.

“Oh, boy. Yeah. Like she's going to go for that.”

“So we persuade her,” Sam said, and turned toward the house.

THIRTEEN

Gardner opened the door to Sam's knock. Having snatched a couple hours of sleep on the plane, she was looking marginally less bleary-eyed than either he or Wynne. That didn't mean that she was looking good, however. Her bottle-brush hairdo was flat on one side, and the only makeup she seemed to have left had morphed into black smudges under both eyes. She had traded her black skirt for snug, black pants before they had boarded the plane, and with them she was wearing a clingy black T-shirt. Tucked in. With what looked like the same wide black belt as before cinched around her waist. Combined with the double D's and the J.Lo butt, the outfit made her look hot. And hungry.

Like a woman on the hunt.

She smiled at him, which sent a warning chill racing down Sam's spine. He'd found himself in dangerous situations often enough to recognize them when they occurred. And this was definitely one.

“Yo,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Just peachy keen.” Her smile widened as she pushed the door wide.

Finding himself caught squarely in the crosshairs, Sam's instinct for self-preservation kicked into high gear. To save himself, he offered up a sacrifice: He took a step back and pushed Wynne through the door ahead of him. Wynne looked at Gardner as she closed and locked the door. Sam looked around the apartment.

His initial impression was that it was cheerful. Homey, even. The walls of the room he was in, the living room, were a soft, bright yellow. The floors were hardwood. The huge couch that dominated one whole wall was—he didn't want to call it pink; call it, rather, the color of raspberries. Two armchairs, one green, one flowery, were drawn up on either side of the couch. There was a rug, a couple of tables and lamps, a coffee table. A TV. A trio of big windows directly opposite the door looked out into a vista of leafy tree branches. Sniper city? The branches he could see all looked like they might hold about ten pounds max, so not unless the sniper was a squirrel. Just to double-check, Sam crossed to the window and looked out, evaluating the risk. He could see down into about a dozen tiny backyards, all separated into grids by a myriad of fences. About four fences over, a big black dog snoozed on its side in the grass. Even from this distance it looked about the size of a small pony, and, remembering Hendricks, Sam grinned: He was pretty sure he was looking at Cujo. The upper stories of neighboring houses were obscured by the leafy foliage of big old oaks and maples, with the occasional elm and chestnut-trunked birch thrown in. Good. Nobody was going to be shooting through the windows from nearby roofs. Relaxing slightly, he turned to survey the rest of the apartment. To his right he could see part of a kitchen. To his left, a pair of closed doors.