Love you to Death (28 page)

He wanted to be in Woodward’s shoes.

“Did you get anything out of the guy who attacked us?” asked Elise.

Woodward held the door open for them to leave. “No, but we know this guy. He’s a hired gun—works for anyone with enough cash. He’s wanted for questioning in connection with several unsolved homicides. We’ve got guys in with him now, talking to him.”

“He’s not going to say anything,” predicted Trent.

“Maybe not, but we caught him in the act this time. He’s not going to be slipping away anytime soon.”

“How did he get the key to our room?” asked Trent.

“He killed the night clerk, so maybe he made his own, or found a housekeeping key lying around.”

Another death. Trent felt his chest tighten.

“The clerk died?” asked Elise.

“I’m afraid so.”

She squeezed Trent’s hand hard as they made their way down the hall. “What is going on? What does this have to do with Ashley?”

Woodward shrugged. “I wish we knew. I’m beginning to wonder if she didn’t get herself mixed up in some kind of organized crime. We know that hit man worked for the Outfit, even if we can’t prove it.”

Elise leaned against Trent’s side. She was shaking with fear or cold or both, so he wrapped his arm around her. “So, what do we do now?” she asked.

They walked past several desks. Even this early, the place was starting to bustle with activity. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the station. A low drone of voices filled the air with purpose.

“Get some rest. Come back in a few hours. Maybe we’ll have more to go on.”

Maybe. No promises. Trent could hear the frustration in Woodward’s tone. Having the silent hit man in custody had gotten them no closer to Ashley.

“Any suggestions where to stay? Someplace safe?” asked Trent.

“I’ve got one,” said a man behind Trent.

Every muscle in his body clenched, locking down hard. Air flew out of his lungs and he stood frozen for a long, excruciating second. Slowly, he turned around and faced John Laree, his old partner.

“How about you come stay at my place?” asked John.

Trent looked down at the man in a wheelchair, the man who’d taught him so much.

The last time he’d seen John he’d been pale and weak. His face had been haggard with pain and hard with determination. He’d been in a motorized wheelchair then, but now, John’s arms bulged under the sleeves of his CPD T-shirt—clear evidence that he’d gotten well past needing the motor.

John was tan and smiling. His graying hair was trimmed to the scalp, and his bright blue eyes were as clear and sharp as a cold mountain stream. The signs of pain were gone, and it was almost like he was happy to see Trent again.

Trent knew better. No way was John happy to see the man who’d stolen his life.

John thrust his hand out. Trent had no choice but to take it, or be even more of an ass than he already was.

John’s hand was strong and warm, rough with calluses. “It’s good to see you, man. You’re a hard guy to get ahold of.”

Trent couldn’t speak. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth.

Elise stepped forward and shook John’s hand. “I’m Elise McBride. Trent’s friend.”

“John Laree,” was all Trent managed to choke out.

“So, I hear you two have some trouble on your hands. Why don’t you come back to the house and get a little sleep. You both look like you could use it.”

“Thanks,” said Elise. “We’d love to.”

“But we can’t,” added Trent, his words fast and clipped with panic. “I’ve already brought enough trouble down on you. I won’t bring any more to your doorstep.”

“Hell, Trent. No one knows where you’re going but me and Ed. And he sure as hell won’t spill.”

“Not a word,” agreed Woodward.

“Besides, Carol would love to see you again.”

“Carol? I thought you two split up,” said Trent.

John shrugged wide, powerful shoulders. A broad grin spread over his face. “A lot’s changed. If you’d given me your phone number, you’d know about all of it. Instead, you hightailed it out of here as soon as the doctors sent me home.”

He’d wanted to stay, but that would have been selfish. Once he’d seen John was going to make it, he thought he owed the man the decency of never having to look at him again. “I thought it was best.”

“Well, you were wrong,” said John, in that same casual lecturing tone he’d used to teach Trent too many things to count. “You always were a bonehead.”

John spun his chair around easily, like it was a part of him. “Come on,” he said as he rolled away. “I already told Carol you’re coming, and if you make me disappoint her, I’m going to have to beat the hell out of you.”

Trent stood there, unsure what to do for a moment, but Elise had no similar problems. She took her overnight bag from Trent’s shoulder and headed after John.

“You’d better go,” said Woodward. “I’m pretty sure John could take you.”

Lawrence hated incompetence. He expected precision and effectiveness from those he employed.

Hired hit men were no different.

The man had come highly recommended, and yet Elise and her ex-cop boyfriend were still nosing around in Chicago, with the police, no less. His contact on the CPD had seen them only moments ago—right after the hit man he’d hired had been arrested and hauled in for questioning.

Clearly, Lawrence was going to have to take matters into his own hands. He wasn’t about to do anything drastic—no sense in dirtying himself. But this time, the man he hired was going to be supervised. He’d go himself and make sure the job was done right.

And then after that, he was going to have to do something about Gary—get him to leave town, maybe go out to the West Coast. He’d dirtied the waters here. It was time to move on.

And if he didn’t want to go, then Lawrence would simply have to supervise the job of having his brother killed, too.

John Laree’s house was the last place on the planet Trent wanted to be.

They followed him home and pulled in front of a quaint little house crammed up against its neighbors. There wasn’t much yard to be had, but what was there was lush and green. A long ramp wound its way from the drive up to the front porch, and each side of it was lined with bright pink petunias.

“You shouldn’t be so tense,” said Elise. “Clearly, the man doesn’t hate you.”

“He should.” Trent got out of the car before she could say anything else. This was bad enough without her added commentary.

He pulled their overnight bags out of the trunk and headed up to the door. John had already got there ahead of him and was unlocking it.

“You really don’t need to put us up,” said Trent.

“Sure I do. It’s the safest place in town, and your lady friend looks like she’s about to fall over.”

Elise did look tired, but Trent could think of better places for her to catch some sleep than here.

Like anywhere.

John rolled inside and called out, “Carol, I’m home.”

The house was small but homey. Lace doilies and matching curtains gave the place a distinctly feminine look, but Trent figured John probably didn’t care what Carol did with the place as long as she didn’t get rid of the TV. Family pictures covered the walls, along with macaroni art and crooked crayon drawings.

The air smelled like cinnamon and bacon, with a hint of pine cleaner lurking beneath the stronger scents. A radio was on in another room, giving off the bouncy beat of an old Beach Boys song.

Carol came bustling out of the kitchen. She was younger than John, maybe fifty-five, and wore a floral apron around her pudgy middle. As soon as she saw Trent, her face broke into a smile and she rushed past John to reach up and hug him around the neck.

Her smooth cheek was cool against his, and she smelled like fresh cooked bacon. She said something, but Trent was too stunned to get his ears to function. He couldn’t believe that she was hugging him like he was her long-lost son, when she should have balled up her fist and slugged him in the gut.

He’d nearly killed her husband, and she was hugging him.

“I think you’ve embarrassed him enough, Carol,” said John. “Why don’t you come meet his friend, Elise.”

Carol pulled back enough to kiss Trent’s cheek, then wiped off the lipstick mark she’d left behind. “It’s so good to see you again.”

While John made introductions, Trent tried to figure out what the hell had just happened, and why he was wearing a smear of lipstick on his cheek instead of a bruise.

Carol’s voice drifted across the living room, hitting Trent but not really sinking in. “I’ve got some coffee on, and the cinnamon rolls are almost done. They’re just the kind out of the can, but they’re pretty good. I’ll scramble some eggs and we’ll have a nice breakfast. I bet you two are starved after your ordeal.”

Ordeal. That was one way of putting almost being killed by a hired hit man.

“You ladies go ahead,” said John. “Trent and I need a few minutes.”

Carol brushed her hands over her apron, her smile faltering for the first time. “Don’t be long. Business and breakfast don’t mix, and cold eggs are only good for dogs.”

“Just a minute, honey. I promise.”

Carol nodded and took Elise by the arm, leading her away.

“Have a seat,” said John. He was using his training-the-rookie voice, and Trent responded before he’d even realized what had happened.

“You’ve been avoiding me for more than a year. Care to tell me why?” asked John. “I thought we were friends.”

“Of course we were.”
Were
, not
are
. Trent winced at the slip.

If John noticed, he said nothing. “Then why?”

Trent wasn’t sure how to explain, so he just spat it out. “At first I didn’t want to interfere with your physical therapy. I knew you’d be mad as hell at me, so I stayed away.”

“Mad? Is that what you thought?”

“I shot you in the back. Of course you had a right to be mad.”

John let out a scorching, humorless laugh. “That kid was high as a kite, heavily armed, and scared out of his mind. He raised his weapon and aimed at you, and you did the only thing you could—the thing I taught you to do. You shot back.”

“And hit you.”

“Yeah, well, serves me right for jumping in the way.”

How could he be so flippant? How could he act like it was his fault?

Trent clutched the arm of the couch in frustration. “That’s not what happened. You jumped on him to keep him from shooting me.”

“And your bullet hit me instead of him. It was an accident. I always knew that, even before the investigation cleared you of any wrongdoing.”

“Knowing it was an accident didn’t make it any easier on you. I ruined your life!”

John spread his hands and motioned around the comfortable living room. “Does my life look ruined to you? I have a nice place, a wife who loves me, and time to play with my grandkids. What’s ruined about that?”

“You’ll never walk again. You’ll never be a cop again.”

John scoffed. “There’s more to life than being a cop, son. Apparently, two years hasn’t been long enough to teach you that.”

“You loved being a cop.”

“Sure I did. But I love my life more. I love my wife, my kids, and my grandkids a hell of a lot more. If it hadn’t been for leaving the CPD, Carol would have never come back to me. She left me because of the job—she couldn’t stand wondering if I’d come home after my shift every night. After the accident, after being separated for a year, she came back to me. We’re better than ever. Stronger.”

“You should have been able to leave on your own two feet.”

John shrugged. “Four wheels work just as well. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the accident, I never would have left. I’d never have had the guts to leave—it’s all I knew. I have you to thank for making me realize it was time for a change.”

“Thank? You’re psychotic.”

“The world has a way of changing shape when something like this happens. I choose to see it as an improvement. Besides, I still do good work. I go to schools and talk about gun safety, drugs, gangs, you name it. I’m still out there, fighting the good fight.” He moved his chair toward Trent. “What about you? Are you fighting the good fight, Trent?”

No. He was passing time, letting life slide by, wondering if it was worth the trouble. “I work for my brother now.”

“The family landscaping business? You always said you’d rather die than do that job.”

And he’d meant it. Doing the one thing he despised most seemed like a good punishment at the time. Still was.

Trent looked away, staring at the wall of photos behind John. Half a dozen different kids smiled out at him, hamming it up for the camera.

John put his hand on Trent’s knee. It was as far as he could reach from the wheelchair. “You’re the one whose life was ruined that day, not mine. If you want to keep beating yourself up over it, there’s not much I can do, especially when you won’t even give me your phone number.”

“You have it now,” said Trent.