Hard as It Gets (23 page)

Not even a little flustered by Beckett’s demeanor, Louis laced his fingers between his knees. “I did my time in a Baltimore gang, and I did my time in prison. Now I work on the city’s gang task force and run a community program that gives kids alternatives to gangs and helps gang members transition to civilian life. I met Charlie a few times and liked him. Would hate to know he’d been caught up in something with Church. And now it seems my pop’s in danger. I thought my expertise might be of some help.”

“Thank you, it does help,” Becca said, looking from Louis to Beckett, who gave a nod and eased off. For the first time, his abrasive intensity struck her as being more like big brother protectiveness than just being a hard-ass for hard-ass’s sake. She even found it a little endearing.

“Good. Now, my turn for a question,” Louis said. “Am I right in thinking that the three of you are here discussing this with me instead of the police because you’re trying to find Charlie without them?”

Becca rose and glanced to Nick, unsure whether to answer.

“Why do you want to know?” Nick asked.

“Because you might not find the police as useful as you’d think on this. Church has people on the payroll everywhere. Deep pockets, man, and widespread influence.”

Nick’s expression was a brick wall, but Becca felt way too awkward to just pretend the question wasn’t still hanging in the air. “Can we just say we’re not sure who to trust yet?”

“Yeah, that’s cool. Well”—he lifted a half-inch-thick spiral-bound report out of his green canvas messenger bag—“in case I’m right, this might be useful to you.” The title appeared through the clear laminated cover:
Maryland Gang Survey: Church Organization
. “When you’re done with it, just get it back to my dad.”

Becca leafed through the pages. The organization’s history, known membership, gang identifications, businesses, criminal records, and more fluttered through her vision.

“It’s not everything there is to know, but it’s a lot of what we do know,” he said.

Overwhelmed by the threat an organization like this could pose to Charlie—hell, to them all—she let the booklet flip closed with a snap of pages. “I know I keep saying this, but thank you.”

He rose and met each of their gazes. “Don’t thank me yet. If Church has your brother, this situation is
real
serious. And it’s likely to get worse before it gets better.”

Chapter 17

“H
ey, Nick? I found something,” Becca said when they got back in the Charger.

He and Beckett turned in his seat toward her. “What?” Nick asked.

She fished the necklace they’d retrieved from the maid out of her pocket and opened it. “Look at the inside surfaces in the light.”

Nick turned on the overheads and held it up. Someone had carved letters and numbers into the silver. “Were these here before?”

“No. The pictures that were in there were mine, so I know there wasn’t writing in there before. Charlie had to have done this after he took it. No idea what it means, though.”

Beckett reached for the necklace. “You drive. I’ll call this in to Marz. He can start running searches on both strings.”

Not long after, Rixey eased the Charger into a spot across the street from Becca’s house. His gut told him bringing her here was a bad idea on about fifty-two levels—especially with what they’d just found at Charlie’s. But if he was going to live up to his word, he had to be a partner and not a dictator, much as that sometimes sucked—not because he wanted to control her but because he wanted Becca safe and happy.

And her house was damn unlikely to achieve either of those goals right now.

He turned in the driver’s seat and met her expectant gaze. God, even with everything the day had thrown at her, she was beautiful and brave and still clinging to hope. And with what they’d learned at Walt’s tonight, holding onto any kind of positivity was a damned act of heroism.

“No more than ten minutes, Becca. You’re not going to have time to tour the whole place. Find the things you want to take, throw them in a bag, and we’re back out the door.”

She nodded, clearly eager to go inside.

Shane was on the sidewalk, weapon drawn, methodically scanning the street.

“Okay, here we go.” Nick unholstered his gun and nodded at Beckett, then the two men got out and Rixey released the seat forward for her. Bracing herself on his hand, she stepped onto the pavement, and Nick was on her like white on rice. He hustled her across the road, Shane and Beckett flanking them. Key in hand before they hit the steps, Rixey reached around her when they got to the door and slid the grooved metal home. Inside, he flicked the switches on the front wall and urged her in so the guys could enter behind them. Last in, Shane secured the door.

Nick was wishing they’d made this trip during the day so the interior lights wouldn’t have advertised their presence when he heard her.

“Holy shit. Ho-ly shit. Holy freaking shit.”

Standing in the middle of what looked like a tornado’s debris, Becca surveyed the damage as she turned in a slow circle, her face pale with shock. When her eyes landed on him, it was like being sucker punched in the solar plexus—her pain and fear sucked the wind right out of his lungs.

He crossed the room and took her hands. “When this is all over, we’ll make this right. Okay? Important thing is your safety. You weren’t here when they did this, and I don’t want you to be here should they decide to return.”

She heaved a shaky breath. “Right. Okay. Um, I think everything I want is upstairs.” A series of expressions played out over her pretty face, and he literally watched her shove back the panic and steel herself.

Shane and Beckett took up positions at the first-floor doors as Rixey followed her up the stairs. He felt her sense of loss like a jagged rock in his gut. And, man, he would’ve done anything to bear that burden for her. But sometimes life forced you to walk through the shit whether you had a good pair of boots or not—and it was apparently Becca’s turn.

Sonofabitch.

From the steps, she made for the bathroom, but stopped abruptly with an “oh” when she turned on the light. The mirror was shattered, shards everywhere. “Jesus. I’ll never get the glass out of the bottom of my shoes if I go in there. Who would
do
this?”

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”

“I’ve got a professional first-responders-type first-aid kit in that closet over there,” she said. “Thought it might be good to have on hand.”

Hanging onto the molding, Nick leaned in and grabbed a towel off the bar. He flipped out the fabric and settled it over most of the glass. The terry muted the sound of the crunching as he crossed the narrow room.

“It’s a red backpack.”

In the closet, the pack easily stood out. He slung it over his shoulder. “Anything else?” Something caught his eye and he grabbed and tossed it to her. “How ’bout that?”

Becca squeaked but caught the yellow rubber ducky in her hands. She laughed. They didn’t have time to play around, but the thirty seconds it took to distract her from the horror that was her house was worth it. “Actually, Shiloh might like this. She doesn’t have any toys.”

He grimaced. “That’s not a dog name. She’s a guard dog. She needs a strong name.” Under his feet, the glass crunched again as he made his way out. He dropped the backpack at the top of the steps.

“I know. I just need five concentrated minutes to really think about it,” she said, stepping into her bedroom doorway. “Oh, God.” She hit the overhead light switch and went utterly still as her gaze scanned over the room. The sudden gasp and sob ran ice down Rixey’s spine. Becca bolted over the wreckage, her feet slipping.

“Becca?”

“No. No, no, no.” She scrabbled on hands and knees over her bed and clutched at the fretboard of the destroyed guitar lying on the far side. She hugged it to her chest, shoulders shaking and gasping around suppressed sobs, and the wires dragged still-connected pieces of the guitar’s bridge and body into her lap. She caved in over it, her back trembling and tense. “No, no,” she rasped, tears choking off her voice.

Nick’s throat went tight and he was beside her in an instant, wrapping himself around her and whispering soft shushes. “It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay.” The words felt like crushed glass in his mouth because, whatever this was, it wasn’t in the same fucking zip code as okay.

“Is not . . . was . . . Sc-Scott’s,” she managed around hitches of breath. “Was all . . . all . . . I had . . . l-left.”

Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, he pulled her whole body into his lap, settled her face into the crook of his neck, and held her close. Her hand fisted so tight into his shirt that it would probably never fit the same, but he didn’t care. He’d bear anything if she didn’t have to be going through this right now. She shook against him and held her breath in an effort to restrain the overflow of emotion, and Nick just rubbed her back and kissed her sweaty forehead and vowed on his dead parents’ graves he would find the animals responsible for hurting her. Then he’d take those motherfuckers down.

Slowly, the shuddering became less severe and her breathing calmed. Rixey was acutely aware that they’d been at the house longer than they should, but he also didn’t want to further upset her.

She slipped her hand between their bodies and wiped at her face.

He tugged up the bottom of his shirt and held it out. “Here. Use me.”

A single sad, choked laugh escaped her, but she took him up on her offer, burying her face into his chest as she dried her eyes on the hem of his shirt. When she let it go, it was damp against his skin.

Still in his lap, she eased upright. “Do you . . . h-have . . . a knife?”

Holding her, he leaned over and retrieved the blade from his ankle sheath. “What do you need?”

“Will it cut these wires fr-free?” She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself. “Stupid, but I want to take this.” Her knuckles were nearly white from gripping the fretboard so hard.

The blade made quick work of slicing through the metal wires. “It’s not stupid at all.” He returned the knife to its hiding place, then cupped her face in his hand. Eyes puffy, face red, damp hair sticking to the sides of her cheeks, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “I know it’s not fair for me to rush you, but we—”

“I know.” She pushed off his chest.

He held her tight another moment. When her sad blue eyes flipped up to his face, he leaned in slowly and kissed her on the lips. No pressure. No heat. Just a tender press of flesh on flesh to let her know he was there. “Whoever did this, Becca, I’m going to make them pay.” He helped her to her feet.

When she got down, she moved quickly, almost mechanically, retrieving some clothing here, loose pictures there, and a handful of jewelry she was able to fish out of the mess on the floor. “My bracelet,” she gasped, pulling a strand of silver charms out from under a pile of crushed seashells. “It was from my dad.” She clipped it to her wrist.

“Careful, Becca,” he said as she picked through the debris. Shattered glass and sharp-edged shells were everywhere.

“I will. This is my mom’s jewelry box. Where the locket was.” She lifted the wooden box, now mostly empty. “I wonder . . .” Pulling out the bottom drawer, she reached her hand in. Something clicked, and a drawer popped out on the back. A small sheet of paper sat within. She gasped.

Nick crouched beside her.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Charlie used to love to play with this when we were kids. He was absolutely fascinated with the hidden compartment. My mom would leave dollar bills in it for him to find.” She unfolded the small, square sheet. It read, “WCE 754374329 United Bank of Singapore 12M.” What in the world? “Those are the same letters and numbers as in the locket. It’s a bank account?”

“Looks that way. Good job, Becca. This could be a real lead.” And not just for Charlie. If that
12M
stood for what he thought, it was a dollar amount. The kind one could make, say, from having a longtime hand in the heroin trade in Afghanistan. Determination settled in his gut, and a little hope, too. “We’ll get Marz on this. See what he can make of it.”

She nodded, then crossed to her closet, where she retrieved a big tote bag and dropped her treasures in, including the rubber duck. Rooting around in the loose clothes on the floor, she finally yanked a navy blue sweatshirt from the pile. She shook it and held it up. “Wonder if Jeremy would get it,” she said, turning it toward him. It read, “There are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary, and those who don’t.”

“I don’t get it,” Nick said.

She gave a small smile. “It’s a nerd joke. Charlie gave it to me.” After adding it to the bag, she knelt and repacked a box of what looked like mostly papers and photos that had been dumped out. “I want to take these,” she said, pushing the box and tote toward him as she rose. “One more thing.” She rolled open the drawer to her nightstand. “Fuck.”

“What?” he said, a murderous storm brewing in his gut on her behalf.

“They stole my goddamned gun. I should’ve taken it that first night, but I thought I’d be back . . .” Nick peered into the mostly empty drawer just before she slammed it shut on a growl. “I am so fucking . . .
mad
.”

He didn’t blame her in the least. He was seething, and this hadn’t even happened to him. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a piece at home that might be good for you.”

“I don’t want
your
gun, I want
my
gun,” she said, tugging her fingers through the length of her hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bite your head off. But I am . . .” Her hands clenched into fists, and she leaned her forehead against them. “I just wanna kill someone right now. Which is . . . a really fucking bad thing for a nurse to want to do.”

Rixey bit back the kernel of humor her words unleashed. Truth be told, he admired her rage. She was hurt, she was overwhelmed, and she was no doubt scared out of her mind, but she wasn’t letting it break her. Anger was good. Anger helped you fight. And,
Jesus,
but she was fierce and sexy when she was enraged.

He never thought he’d say it, but he had to give Frank Merritt credit for this one thing—he’d raised a strong, courageous daughter who could handle herself when the shit was hitting the fan. If Charlie was anything like her, they had a better-than-average shot at him being alive and making it out of this fubar.

She huffed and threw out her hands in a gesture of
Enough,
her bracelet jingling in emphasis. “There’s only one thing I want from the office, and then I’m done. Promise.” Retrieving the box and tote, he followed her into the hallway, reaching back in to douse the ceiling light. She made her way to the front room, then groaned and cursed and kicked paper around for a minute before returning with a stuffed bear in an Army uniform, complete with ID tags. “This stuff is all I have left of them, you know?”

“I get it. You don’t have to justify it to me, Becca. Anything else you can think of, quick?”

She tucked the bear into the bag and shook her head. “No, I’m done. Let’s get out of here before something else happens. Besides, this place is pissing me off.”

R
IXEY PREPARED TO
get his head torn off as they stepped into his building’s back door. In the midst of the scene at Becca’s house, he’d forgotten the appointment with his tattoo client. Jeremy had called as they were leaving her place, but Rixey had let it go to voice mail, wanting to keep his focus on her and making sure they weren’t being watched or tailed. He’d sent Jer a text message saying he was en route, but without question, Jeremy was going to skin him alive. It wasn’t undeserved. He was almost fifteen minutes late.