Covert Reich (5 page)

“So fuck it,” he said aloud. “Fuck it! This little setback is good for the character.” However, Redding knew any setback—minor or major—was not good for this project. Peter hated problems and loose ends. Hopefully Dr. Morales would keep her nose out of things. She would be much better off that way. The lights flickered from the city below, growing more distant as the plane reached cruising altitude. The alcohol began to ease tension from his shoulders and his mind. But he couldn’t relax completely. He knew too many casualties would quickly alert the calvary, and the goddamn calvary was not invited to this war, because Peter Redding was determined to win.

CHAPTER TEN

Mark Pritchett loved watching the pretty doctor. Everyone loved watching Dr. Morales. But he was by far the most skilled at watching without her ever knowing. Hell, he’d been watching her long before he’d gotten word only a few hours earlier to keep an eye on her.

That’s who he was—a watcher. 

He couldn’t wait until he got the go-ahead to take care of her. They would want that, wouldn’t they? The Brotherhood wouldn’t just want him to keep an eye on her and then do nothing about it.

Mark wanted so badly to prove himself to The Brotherhood. He was tired of being a peon. He was worthy of so much more. He could
do
so much more for the cause. He knew he could. If only they’d give him the chance.

For now, Mark would bide his time. It wasn’t as if his assignment was a bad one. Keeping an eye on certain doctors was easy, and he’d been doing a damn fine job of it. Watching them and reporting back in. Smooth as silk. He knew he should be happy they trusted him. There were not many of them who had been placed in a position like this. Out of all of the guys who could have been chosen, they’d chosen him.

There had been a handful of doctors on his list to watch, including Dr. Morales. He’d about split a nut. She was gorgeous. But an ice-cold bitch. Like they all were. Women. From his mother to his fat-assed sister to the ex-girlfriend he should have offed for being the most annoying, pain in the ass on Earth.

Then there was Dr. Morales. Kelly…

Damn, he would have loved to see her face when the bad-ass detective told her about Hamilton. Priceless. He wondered what Hamilton had done to get himself iced. One thing he knew for sure was when you fucked with The Brotherhood, they didn’t mess around. Obviously.

Mark snuck inside a supply room and stuck his hand inside his elastic-waist pants, wrapping his palm around his already hard cock. He looked down. The tattoo above his navel made him smile—his identity.

Everything that swastika stood for, he stood for.

Thinking about the various ways he would handle Dr. Morales excited him. He tightened his grip and moved his hand faster. Little Miss Big-Shot Doctor. Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? That would really be proving himself. Death. Murder. Yes. With the good doctor, he would look right into her eyes. He would make it slow and torturous. A begging-for-mercy kind of thing.

He thought more about Dr. Morales and what he was going to do to her. It was pure ecstasy. He leaned against the wall, slid down to the floor, and finished himself off. He couldn’t wait much longer. But waiting was a must because Mark knew no matter how bad he was, the people he worked for were far worse.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Georgia Michaels—Gem for short—ran her fingers through her pixie cut, wondering how many grays were hidden beneath the Clairol Golden Blonde she’d been using since she was twenty-one and first spotted one of those nasty buggers. That was eighteen years ago, and she had no doubt the stress of raising two teenage boys—not to mention the strain of her job—had turned her hair snow white by now. There was a time, before she’d had the boys, when she’d wanted to become an international correspondent. But her hopes and dreams of interviewing and producing stories for CNN were dashed when her first son came along. She’d taken mothering as seriously as she’d taken anything in her life, and although Austen hadn’t been planned, she’d fallen in love with him at first site and enjoyed being a mom.

However, kids grow up, divorces happen, and finances dwindle. For the past few years, she’d gotten back into reporting and her dreams were alight again with possibilities for the future. Probably too middle-aged and not pretty enough to be on television, but she still had brains and brawn, and could sniff out a good story and hunt down information like nobody’s business.

Gem stared at the computer screen in front of her.
Deadline, deadline, deadline
.
Jesus, it’s just another homicide. Write the damn thing, and get it to Stu before he hunts you down.

God it was hard getting back into the swing of things. Gem had just returned from a week in Puerto Vallarta. Finally! Vacation. With a handful of forty-something divorcees drinking a shit-load of margaritas and eating way too much good food. Five pounds heavier and craving salt, lime, and tequila…the last thing Gem wanted to do right now was her job.

Homicide, schmomicide.
They were all the same. So-and-so was killed at such-and-such location, by whomever using whatever—if they even knew
that
much. At least this one had some intrigue to it. It wasn’t the typical boy-meets-girl, fall in love, girl falls out of love, boy goes psycho and blows her brains out story. No. This time one of the top pathologists in the state had been offed right in the middle of County Hospital.
Whoever toasted this guy was a total nut job or at least had some real balls. Or was some kind of hired hand. Maybe the doctor owed the wrong people some cash? Could be anything.

Gem was checking into the ex-wife. From what she’d heard, the split between Dr. Hamilton and his ex had been messy. The wife made off with most of his money and was living large. Of course the death of her ex meant those alimony checks were going to stop rolling in. On the other hand, if she had an insurance policy on the doc, or if he had failed to change his beneficiary over on an existing policy, well, then…that could certainly be reason enough for murder.

Or maybe it wasn’t about money. Gem had done enough checking into this thing to discover Dr. Hamilton had eyes for a pretty pediatrician who ran the neo-natal intensive care unit at County—a Dr. Morales. Gem wondered who had instigated the divorce between the Hamiltons. The ex could have a whopping jealous streak.

She looked at the blank screen that stared unforgivingly back at her. One would think this wouldn’t be a problem to write. This was her place, her people. Noises from the newsroom, people dashing about, crazed writers high on caffeine or nicotine (or both) typing away as their minds raced at a clip their bodies could certainly never keep up with, always poised to pounce on the next big story…Jesus, she should be able to write this story in her sleep.

Big story
.
This one had the feel to it, like a lion hiding in his den waiting to come out for the hunt. The photo of the guy was really all she had at the moment other than the usual rumor and conjecture from a handful of hospital employees—all filled with speculation. She had insiders at the police station, but the strange thing was, no one was talking. At all. The cops had given a brief statement, and that was it. Detective Pazzini, who Gem thought was a decent cop and a helluva good-looking one, told the media once forensics was finished investigating, the press would receive clearance from the hospital and get a detailed report. Great. A lot of good that did her right now.

Her phone buzzed and snapped her back to the here and now. “Yeah?”

“It’s Goldman.” She cringed. It was her boss, Stuart Goldman. “How’s your story coming? About finished? It’s a front pager. We have to go to press in a couple of hours.”

“Just about.
Without the police saying much, it’s a little on the light side.”

“Well, you have to give me something. This guy was an important member in the community. Loved and respected. Go on that.”

“Right,” she replied, holding out her hands and looking at the light pink, chipped polish on her fingernails. The call from the boss was the motivation she’d needed. Gem turned off everything else around her and went to work, pounding out the best story she could. Once finished, she opened up her e-mail and attached the story to send to Goldman. She buzzed his office and let him know it was on the way.

Before heading out for the evening, she figured she’d better take a look and see if she had anything interesting in her inbox. She really was back now. E-mails aplenty. Her numero uno rule while down in Mexico was no computer and no cell phone.

Ah. L.A. was too far from Puerto Vallarta.

She scrolled down and saw the typical story pitches, lots of forwards from her book club friends, who she had consistently asked to stop sending her those damn jokes and chain letters. There was a short e-mail from her mom reminding her to make reservations early for her and the boys to fly back to New York for Christmas. The usual stuff. Except…one e-mail caught her eye. It was from
[email protected]
. At first she figured it was one of those skanky ads for Viagra or Cialis. God knew she received a ton of those, even with the filters on, but it was the subject line that grabbed her. “Your Neighbor, Chad.”

She opened the e-mail and read the short note.
 Watch your neighbor. Three years ago, San Diego, Ca., Petersen family.

“Oh my God,” she heard herself whisper. “What is this?” She knew about the Petersen family. Everyone in Southern California and pretty much in the U.S. had heard of them. And Gem had met her neighbor, Chad. But there was no way he’d been connected to that grisly, horrible crime. No way. She went to delete the e-mail, thinking it was some sick joke, but something held her back—her gut, her instinct, her sixth sense. She wasn’t sure what, but she closed the e-mail and opened her documents on the Petersen family.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Stunned, Kelly mindlessly flipped through the channels on her TV trying to find a distraction. But the only thing that seemed to help was her cat, Stevie T (short for Stephen Tyler). He was curled up on her lap, purring away. Kelly stroked the long yellow fur on the tabby whose only purpose in life was to sleep, eat, and soak up attention. She scratched behind his ears. “Wish I was you,” she said. The cat opened his green eyes slightly and let out a soft meow, likely in protest that Kelly had spoken. “Sorry.”

She finally settled on HRTV to watch some horse racing. Horses were in her blood. She had been around them all her life, and even had one—Sydney, a mare—that she kept at the LA Equestrian Center. She tried to ride at least three days a week, when her busy schedule permitted.

Kelly had been born in Puerto Rico where her father worked as a groom and breezing race horses in the hopes of becoming a jockey. An opportunity came along when she was three and Raul moved his family to Lexington, Kentucky. In Lexington, he was able to work his way up from grooming race horses to training them. Now he trained and managed his own small stable. With any luck, he could end up with a future winner in his barn.

As a teen, Kelly breezed horses on the track before dawn. She’d thought long and hard about vet school vs. medical school, but in the end, she knew healing humans would be easier on her than trying to heal animals. She’d always formed attachments more easily to animals than people. However, as she’d grown in her role as a pediatrician, she realized being a human doctor was as tough as she’d thought being a vet would be. Emotions were emotions and they could get the better of her if she let them.

This train of thought led her right back to Baby Salazar lying in the NICU, and then to Jake. She tried to focus on the race—mud flying everywhere under pounding hooves, spraying like bullets into the eyes of the jockeys and horses.

Jockeys were an interesting lot. They worked so hard to make weight. They did everything from working out, starving themselves, taking diet pills, and even using cocaine to sharpen their focus and reaction time. Cocaine addiction amongst jockeys was high. It was one of the things her father did not like about racing. He’d recently fired one of the best jockeys to come through his stable for drug use.

Addiction
.
It would have been so easy for Kelly to piece all of this together if Lupe Salazar had been addicted to something. Kelly could treat addiction. She would know exactly what she was dealing with and how to handle it.

She needed to figure out the missing pieces. But as the emotions of the day finally caught up with her, she began to shut down. As she listened to the announcer and pounding hooves on the TV, she dozed off. Tomorrow she would see what she could figure out. She would do what she always did when she needed answers—make an early morning visit to the L.A. Equestrian Center, and, if time permitted, take Sydney out for a short trail ride before work. Syd had a way of helping her see things in a different light. Now it was time for sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kelly locked the house up behind her and stepped into her Land Rover. She’d fed Stevie T and left a light on in the entry and kitchen since she planned to return late. Her shift would start at nine and go for 12 hours. Leaving at 6:00am would give her enough time to visit her horse, and maybe get some perspective out on the trail.

Thirty minutes later, the rich scent of earth, dew, and freshly cut hay hit her as she opened the car door. Nickers and whinnies echoed across the grounds from the equestrian center. It was breakfast time and the horses were definitely ready to eat. She knew her timing wasn’t great, but it was either today or wait for the weekend.

Kelly let out a low whistle as she walked down the barn aisle. A big bay mare popped her head out and turned to face her. Sydney nickered a gentle hello. Kelly smiled. “I’m happy to see you, too.” In fact, she was more than happy…she was relieved. Tears welled in her eyes. She was exhausted and reeling from Jake’s horrible death. This was the only place she could come and find peace, even if only for a short while.