Blind Instinct (15 page)

“Only on paper.” Bayard leaned back against a tree trunk, his gaze skimming the shadows.

“So he didn't die.”

“Someone who looked like Dennison did. We used the opportunity.”

The flat series of statements didn't shock her as much as they should have. Bayard had a job to do. It wasn't pretty and she wouldn't want to do it, but she understood the necessity. “The Latino guy. It wasn't Delgado.”

“Delgado's dead. They fished his body out of the river this morning.”

The sense of cold deepened. “So who was it then?” And what did he want in Shreveport, at
her
house?

“How old would you say the Latino guy was?”

“Not young. He had gray at his temples, although he moved like a young man.” Her stomach tightened as she relived the few moments when she had seen him gliding through the trees. “Maybe forty-five. Fifty at the most.” She nodded toward the house and the front door, which was still flapping in the breeze. “When it's clear, I need to check out the house. I won't touch anything.”

Bayard's expression was remote. “Not yet. Rousseau's sending a team over.”

Long seconds ticked by. Her clothes were drying against her skin, although her underwear
was still uncomfortably damp—and the insects were biting. She slapped at a mosquito. She was beginning to itch and burn, signaling that she had been bitten in a whole lot of places she hadn't noticed. Bayard didn't seem to be affected.

She checked her watch. Foot to the floor, it would take Rousseau and his men a good twenty minutes to drive out here.

Less than a minute later, an unmarked car and a police cruiser crunched to a halt on the graveled drive, which meant Bayard must have called for backup before he had gotten here.

Bayard's palm landed in the small of her back, sending a small shock of awareness through her as he urged her out from beneath the concealing shadows of the trees. Sliding her dark glasses down onto the bridge of her nose, she tried to shrug off the feeling of exposure that stepping out of the shelter of the trees elicited. Whoever had been here, they were gone.

As they crossed the open grassy space, she lengthened her stride, but instead of taking the cue and letting his hand drop, Bayard easily matched his pace with hers, maintaining the contact.

Maybe it was the humidity, or the fact that
she'd just had another scare and was still high on adrenaline, but her body's response to Bayard's proximity was intense and unsettling. A sharp ache flared in her loins and her nipples contracted into hard points, painfully erect against the fabric of her damp shirt.

Rousseau lifted a hand as he climbed out of the unmarked car. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it in the backseat of the car, revealing the fact that he was armed, and walked across the lawn to meet them.

Rousseau nodded at Sara and shook hands with Bayard. When she attempted to politely step away from Bayard's touch, his arm curved around her waist, keeping her close. When she stiffened, he sent her an impatient glance, the message clear; he wanted her close.

Already hot, with his palm spread across her rib cage, within a bare inch of her breast, she felt even hotter. She could sense Rousseau's curiosity, see it in the darting glances he sent her way as he caught Bayard up on the smoothly coordinated surveillance of the two vehicles.

Thorpe arrived, grimacing as he stepped out into the heat, and instantly shucking his jacket and loosening the collar of his shirt. He acknowledged
her with a quick nod, then they moved into the house, which had already been checked out by two uniformed officers. As she stepped into the cool dimness of the hallway, Sara was uncomfortably aware that Rousseau was staring at her.

When she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors that opened into the sitting room she understood why. The only times he had seen her she had been dressed for work in quiet, low-key clothing, her hair pulled back in a knot. Other than a cursory glance that acknowledged that she was female and the courteous manners he would extend to any woman, neither he, nor Thorpe, had paid her any attention. Now, with her hair tumbling in damp coiling tendrils over her shoulders and down her back,
she
barely recognized herself. Added to that, she wasn't wearing a bra and the cotton tank she was wearing was still clinging to her skin.

Bayard's gaze caught hers, narrowed and glittering. She felt her cheeks heat. If she'd thought
he
hadn't noticed, she was wrong.

An hour later, after Rousseau's team had been through the house, taking prints off door
handles and window fastenings, she did her own checking.

It was clear from the mess that Dennison had spent his time in the attic, which made sense since, apart from the sitting room which contained the piano, the rest of the house was empty of possessions. When she had finished checking the window fastenings, she walked downstairs. Bayard followed her into the kitchen.

She felt shaky and more than a little emotional. Part of the reason was that she hadn't eaten. Even worse, she hadn't had anything to drink and in this weather that was fatal. She found the glass she had left in one of the cupboards for just that reason, filled it with tap water, drained it and refilled it, drank, then left the empty glass on the counter.

A cloud of dust moving down the drive signaled that the last of Rousseau's men had departed. She leaned against the kitchen counter while Bayard drank a glass of water. She watched as he rinsed the glass. “Ready to go?”

His hands landed on either side of her on the bench. “Not yet.”

His hips pinned her against the kitchen counter, and suddenly, there was no air. His mouth when it
touched hers was soft, giving her the opportunity to pull back if she wanted. Instead, she cupped his jaw and angled her head to deepen the kiss. The pressure of his mouth increased. His tongue in her mouth sent a shaft of heat through her.

Her arms coiled around his neck as she fitted herself more tightly against him. The hard bulge of his erection burned against her stomach. His hands cupped and molded her breasts through the fabric of her T-shirt, his forefingers and thumbs squeezing her nipples into tight, hard points, the hold possessive and flagrantly sensual. His mouth lifted then sank back down on hers.

The message was clear. He wanted her and he was going to have her. She could lie all she liked about wanting him, but they were going to have sex. It was just a matter of when and where.

When he ended the kiss and stepped back, her mouth was swollen and damp, her body as tight as a bow.

Somehow, in the space of a few hours “not ever” had changed to “not yet.”

B
ayard parked in the visitors' space at the rear entrance of the police station. Heads turned as they strolled down corridors and through a field room. His hand stayed firmly in the small of her back despite the fact that she'd changed clothes before they'd driven into town. This time, she'd included a bra, and she'd smoothed her hair into a neat knot.

Rousseau showed them directly into his office. “Help yourself to the phone. I'll get coffee.”

Bayard made a series of phone calls in quick succession. The nearest FBI office was in New Orleans, but he bypassed that and requested the information he wanted from someone called Lissa in his D.C. office.

Rousseau arrived with foam cups of coffee, several sachets of sugar, creamer and plastic stirrers. Sara loaded her cup with creamer and sugar and sipped. The rich sweet taste exploded across her tongue and made her realize how hungry she was. What she needed was food, but until she could buy something to eat, the coffee would have to do.

Bayard slipped a faxed copy of a photo in front of her.

She studied the slightly blurred shot, which looked as if it had been taken with a poor quality cell phone camera and, like a switch flicking, she was once again swimming in shadows and murky heat.

Stein
.

Although it couldn't be. Stein had to have died
.

But then, so had she
.

Bayard placed another photo in front of her, this one taken from a slightly different angle.

“That's him,” she said flatly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The murky quality of the shot, the way his head was angled, made the resemblance to the man she had watched from across the river even stronger.

“You just positively identified Alex Lopez.”

Rousseau let out a low whistle.

The sense of cold she'd experienced the moment she had recognized Stein deepened. “I thought there were no photos of Lopez.”

“When Dennison turned federal witness, he supplied us with these images.”

Rousseau's gaze narrowed. “Now we're going to have to talk. What's Lopez doing in Shreveport?”

Bayard gathered up the photos and slipped them back in the envelope. “He's playing on a couple of levels. We've checked back on every advertisement placed by ACE in the last year, and found a list of telephone numbers—all with one-time use, then disconnected. The code traffic goes two ways between Lopez and, we think, Helene Reichmann. They've been using the code to correspond.”

Sara sipped her way through her coffee as Rousseau flipped open a file and took notes. Bayard's flat delivery of the facts made sense. The situation between the Chavez cartel and the cabal was well-documented and ongoing. Put simply, it was two criminal organizations, which had once been intimately linked, trying to take
each other out. The prize was equally simple—a great deal of money was involved. If the Nazi gold and artwork Reichmann had taken out of Berlin was also up for grabs, the prize pool could conceivably double.

She set her empty cup down. “I can understand why Lopez wanted the safe-deposit box, but killing me doesn't make sense. All he had to do was let me collect the items,
then
steal them.”

Bayard sat back in his chair. “That's where the second agenda comes in. Over the past couple of weeks, two of my men have been killed in D.C. The second killing was almost certainly carried out by Lopez.”

Sara dropped her empty foam cup into the trash. She knew Bayard had lost two agents but, in conjunction with the attempts on her life, there was now a more sinister connotation. Last year Lopez had systematically killed off almost the entire upper echelon of the cabal. The series of murders had been designed to isolate and terrify Helene Reichmann. Presumably, Lopez's ultimate aim was to kill Helene, he just hadn't succeeded yet. “Are you saying that Lopez is now trying to kill you?”

“Looks like it.”

Bayard's gaze was calm, but that didn't change the fact that she wanted to shake him. He had to have known since the death of his second agent that Lopez was targeting him and he hadn't bothered to mention the fact to her. “Okay, so he wants to kill you, but why Lopez himself? Why didn't he send someone else?”

He shrugged. “Over the past few months we've closed down an estimated eighty percent of Lopez's operation. He's lost personnel, and he's had to pull key men out of the Colombian end of the business. Recently a rival cartel stepped in and took a chunk of his coca territory in Colombia. It's an equation. Less product coming out of Colombia, and his distribution system is almost nonexistent. Lopez is on the verge of going broke.” Bayard checked his watch and pushed to his feet. “Which is probably why he used a low-rent killer like Delgado in the first place. Delgado was cheap, and dead, he was free.”

Bayard gathered up the faxed sheets and slipped them back in his briefcase. He shook hands with Rousseau and Thorpe.

When they stepped out into the parking lot, Sara turned on him. “Why didn't you tell me what Lopez was doing?”

“There was no need for you to know.”

For a brief second, she was so angry she couldn't speak. “It would have been nice to know a little earlier that he's trying to kill you.”

His gaze narrowed. “I didn't know you cared.”

Bayard unlocked the car, tossed his briefcase on the backseat and held the passenger-side door for her. His phone buzzed as he turned into traffic. The conversation was brief and monosyllabic. When he hung up his expression was remote. “I sent an agent over to check out your apartment. You've had another break-in.”

Her jaw locked. With Delgado, Lopez and Dennison in town, and any number of “treasure hunters,” it was logical that her apartment would be searched. But that didn't make the violation of her privacy, and her life, any easier to take. “I need to go there.”

“Sorry, that's not an option. Rousseau's already on his way, and I've made arrangements for it to be cleaned and everything put in storage.”

She stared at the glittering streams of traffic, the heat rippling off the highway. Despite the fact that she knew she had to step away from her apartment and her life in Shreveport, that didn't make leaving her home any easier. “So, what now?”

“We pack. I've got a flight booked for this afternoon. You're coming to D.C. with me.”

Sara was woken by the flight attendant just before they touched down in D.C. Smothering a yawn, she folded the light blanket, handed it to the attendant and fastened her seat belt.

Bayard, who occupied the seat next to her, and who had been in work mode ever since the meeting with Rousseau, disconnected his laptop, slipped it into his briefcase and stored the briefcase in the overhead locker. His black T-shirt separated from the waistband of his pants, revealing a slice of flat, tanned stomach as he reached up and closed the locker.

His gaze locked with hers as he sat down, and suddenly they were back in male-female territory. “Feel better?”

“A little.”

From the moment she had identified Lopez, time had been compressed. With a few phone calls, Bayard had organized one of his men, who had been involved in tailing Dennison, to go to his house, pack their things and meet them at the airport. His assistant, Lissa, had made the travel arrangements, a chartered private jet to Atlanta
landing in time to connect with a regular flight to Dulles. The seats had been first class, something of a revelation after the economy class seats Sara usually booked. Aside from the fact that the seating was actually comfortable, the cabin was hushed and the food had been wonderful.

The plane banked. She looked out of the window, saw the carpet of lights below, the unmistakable shape of runways that denoted they had arrived at Dulles, and checked her watch. With the time difference, it would be close to nine o'clock.

Just after landing, a member of airport security directed them to a VIP lounge, where Lissa, who turned out to be a tall blonde with the kind of fine-boned face that photographed like a dream, was waiting.

Their luggage was hand-delivered almost immediately, and Lissa led them out through a private exit to where a glossy SUV with tinted windows was parked in a security clearance area.

A lean guy with short blond hair and a Southern accent, who was introduced as Bridges, was at the wheel. When their luggage was loaded, Bayard climbed into the front passenger-side seat and Lissa and Sara climbed into the rear.

This late, traffic was light, and the SUV was
comfortable enough that she actually fell asleep. Forty minutes later, Bayard shook her awake. Instead of a hotel, he had brought her to his apartment.

Too tired to argue, and aware of the security practicalities of trying to protect her in a hotel or motel, where she could be tracked with relative ease, she climbed out and let Bridges carry her suitcase.

The apartment building was large and in the Victorian style with soaring ceilings and lavish moldings, although the security features were up-to-date, with access card locks, bright lights flooding the entranceway and foyer, and cameras bristling from a number of locations. Bayard's access card even came with an attached GPS system, so that if he lost the keys, he could locate them.

Bayard's apartment was on the third floor. He gave her a brief tour of large, elegantly proportioned rooms. After showing her to a guest room, which Lissa had arranged to have made up for her by Bayard's cleaning lady, he handed her his keys, unlocked a file drawer in his study and found a spare set, then left for his office and a late-night meeting.

Sara was just as happy to be on her own. They had eaten dinner on the flight, so she wasn't hungry, but despite changing earlier in the day, she badly needed to shower and wash her hair.

An hour later, she was wearing a set of soft sweats she'd managed to buy from a mall near the Shreveport airport. Her hair was combed out and drying. Now wide-awake, courtesy of her catnapping on the flight and during the trip into town, she unpacked. She shook out shirts and trousers and hung them in the closet, then loaded underwear into the top drawer of a chest. When she pulled open the second drawer, she discovered it was filled with a neatly folded assortment of football T-shirts and sweaters. The logos denoted they were from a number of universities, a legacy from Bayard's college football days. The next drawer down was empty, so she unloaded the rest of her clothing into it.

After storing her suitcase in the closet, she flicked on lights and walked out onto the narrow wrought-iron balcony that opened off the French doors and tried to orient herself. Since arriving, the night had chilled down and dense clouds had moved in. A cool breeze flowed against her face as she studied the amorphous glitter of the city
and the darkened area directly out from the balcony, which indicated that the building overlooked a green space—either a park or a school.

None of the buildings visible were high-rises, which indicated it was an older part of town, probably with building code restrictions and historical covenants slapped on many of the existing buildings.

A gust of wind brought a scattering of rain. Shivering, she walked back inside and closed the doors. When she had goaded Bayard about chrome and glass, she had been joking, but she hadn't realized how wide off the mark she'd been. The apartment was definitely not a modern, minimalist bachelor pad.

She checked her watch. It was after ten, but she still wasn't anywhere near sleepy. Picking up a pile of newspapers, which Bayard's housekeeper must have left on the kitchen counter along with his mail, she made herself a cup of tea and walked through to the sitting room.

The second she unfolded the first paper she saw the ACE ad. Her pulse rate lifted a notch as she studied the line of code. She walked through to her room and found her purse. She didn't have the codebook, because Bayard had taken that,
along with all the other items she'd found, but she had her working notes on the previous codes she had solved and her own homemade version of the St. Cyr slide. And, with any luck, her memories of the code from her time in Vassigny.

Sitting down, she began the process, an eerie tingle lifting all the hairs at her nape as code combinations slid smoothly into her mind. It was the first time she had actively tried to access those memories and she had been in no way certain that she would be successful.

She first deciphered, then decoded. The message was simple and declarative.

Someone important is going to die
.