My Biker Bodyguard (6 page)

Mitch leaned against the wall, too anxious to sit. At times
like this, he wished he'd never quit smoking. But wealthy
Californians spent almost as much money on no-smoking signs
as they did on personalized license plates. He'd been forced to
quit or turn down the jobs that made his landlord happy.

He cast a glare at the two-way mirror. What was taking
them so long? He'd signed his statement over an hour ago–
unless the hands on his watch lied. It felt closer to three hours.
He listened, but only heard the hum of air-conditioning and the
dim rustle of the man-made breeze from the vent.

Back in L.A., he'd have already been on his way to the
hospital to question the hired thugs. Here, he might as well
begin applying for Social Security. He would be ancient before
they got around to releasing him. He grunted and turned a
chair, straddling it as he sat. The lack of cooperation wasn't the
worst, though. The worst was not having any control.

With the authorities involved here, his last tenuous bit of
clout had slipped away. He stood again and went to the mirror,
cupping his hands around his eyes to check for movement
beyond. Nothing but his own reflection, of course. He wanted
to get out of this glorified holding cell, grab Jess, and dash for
the exit.

What would they do then? If he stayed in Milwaukee, the
locals called the shots. But if he could get her back to L.A.,
Larson would let Mitch do his job, the way it was meant to be
done, not filtered through second-hand law enforcement.

Would Jess go?
That was the hundred and fifty million dollar question,
wasn't it? Jess and Dirty Dan. Without the work of a surgeon
familiar with Siamese twins, they were inseparable. Two days
with the pair and anyone could see how devoted they were to
each other. Which in this instance, really stank.

He leaned his back against the mirror and stared at a
stained section of ceiling tile. He remembered Jess standing,
legs braced apart, hands double-fisted around the grip of the
Magnum. She had surprised him. Though he shouldn't have
been. Expecting her to run, to drive off and leave him, he'd
never considered she might arm herself and stand with him.
Jess had loyalty in spades, but did he deserve that?

What will she think when she finds out I let Beth get shot?
His eyes closed and he saw Beth gasping for air, begging
for him to understand that she had a daughter who needed his
protection. He snapped his eyes open. The image lingered,
than faded into the grey-painted concrete wall.
This ran deeper than any protection policy. He'd vowed to
watch over Jess. No way would he break that promise. Beth
deserved as much, and Jess had earned his respect by stepping
up instead of ducking for cover.
The hands on his watch showed only three minutes had
passed since the last he had looked. He faced his reflection.
Some tough guy he was, sitting like a ninny, waiting for others
to get their act together. His patience fled and he hammered on
the mirror. The glass vibrated.
"Hey!" He hollered, thumping. "Either arrest me, or let
me go, but get someone the hell in here. Now!"
He pummeled the glass with both fists, boxing the mirror
like he would a speed bag back at the gym. Not hard enough to
shatter the glass, but hard enough to annoy the crap out of
anyone lingering on the other side. Good, he thought, give
them a taste of their own medicine.
The door opened and Jack strode inside. "You break it,
you pay for it."
The warning came a little late as Mitch had already
stopped. "It's about damned time. I'm out of here."
Mitch pushed past him and the officer grabbed his arm.
"Where do you think you're goin'?"
He glared at Jack's hand on his arm and the cop released
him with a scowl. Mitch didn't much care. "Time's up. Those
two at the hospital will be discharged before you guys figure
out which way is up."
"You can't leave yet." Jack side-stepped and blocked the
doorway, arms crossed. "They've got more questions for you."
"They can call me." He stepped forward until he could
smell the lingering aroma of garlic from Jack's lunch, but he
didn't step back and Mitch was forced to halt just inside the
door.
"It doesn't work that way."
"It does this time." Mitch leaned closer, intent on
intimidating the smaller man out of his way. The tactic was
one he hadn't used since New York, but he was far from rusty
and far past being polite.
A flicker of indecision passed over the officer's face and
he shook his head. "Take a seat, Conner. Like I said, they're
not done with you yet."
"And like I said, I'm done with them."
"Not so fast." Jack pushed Mitch away from the door.
Mitch fought the instinct to clobber the grunt and walk out
of the station. Thinking of Jess, his vow to her, how all this
was more than just him, helped, but not by much. He lowered
his voice. "You wanna be careful, Jack."
The cop stepped forward. "What're you gonna do about
it?"
Mitch wondered if he wanted to square off against Jack
because he'd dated Jess, or if he just plain didn't like this man.
His head said turn around, and give in, but Jack would think
he'd won, that he'd pulled rank and Mitch decided he couldn't
live with that. "Step back, Jack."
"Try me."
Why'd he have to be such a prick? Mitch jerked forward
in a feint and Jack bought it. The cop raised a balled fist and
Mitch braced himself for the punch. Let the cop hit him first,
then all hell could break loose.
"Officer," a man shouted in the hall. "What do you think
you're doing?"
Jack immediately dropped his fist and Mitch rolled his
shoulders, dislodging tension as a pair of men, dressed in suits,
stepped into view. They were nearly the same height and stood
shoulder to shoulder.
If they try to come through the door like that, they'll get
stuck
.
The darker one wore a pained expression, as if
constipated, and the other, with light brown hair was the sort
you'd forget the moment he passed out of sight. They stank of
government.
Jack, obviously pissed that he'd have to leave now, jabbed
a finger toward Mitch. "Remember, I got your number."
Mitch grinned. He couldn't help it. "Call me anytime."
The officer turned his glare on the waiting men. "He's
yours."
Jack left. Mitch faced Huey and Duey. They stepped
forward, one at a time, both holding up identification. He
caught their department location. They were from L.A. Mr.
Constipation spoke first. "I'm Special Agent Mordstrom of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation and this is Special Agent
Davis. We'd like to ask you some questions."
"Join the club." Mitch returned to the table. The faster
they got at it, the sooner he could leave. He gestured to the two
chairs opposite him and sat in the one he'd flipped. "Have a
seat. Let's get this over with. I've got things to do."
"And what is that, Mr. Conner?" Mordstrom offered a
bland smile as he and his partner occupied the chairs.
"I've got men to question. A job to do, same as you." He
nodded to the file Mordstrom set on the table. While he'd gone
stir crazy and thought baiting a cop a good distraction, they'd
been brought up to speed by the looks of it. "The men at St.
Mary's have information we both need."
The agents gave each other a look and Mitch knew what
they would say. His gripped the back of the chair, level with
his chest, and squeezed.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
It was Davis who said what he'd already guessed. "You'll
not be able to do that, Mr. Conner. Both men died–one on the
way, the other on the operating table."
Mitch uttered a curse and ran a hand over his head. Could
his luck get any worse?
* * *
Jess followed the uniformed officer off the elevator and
down one corridor after another. She shivered in her shorts and
tank top, the air-conditioning too cold after the hours she'd
spent holed up in the tiny room. Gooseflesh broke out over her
bare legs, and she glanced at their mottled color with a
grimace.
That's attractive
.
She lifted her gaze to watch where she was going. The
cop had said he was supposed to take her 'up', nothing else, no
explanation. When she'd asked why, he'd only shrugged. She
could be going before a judge for all she knew. Or maybe it
was some hot-shot district attorney who didn't agree with the
cops that she'd shot in self-defense. Maybe she was about to be
handed over to some frightening, muscular woman with a
German accent and traipsed off to Taycheeda–the women's
prison, where she'd wait years for a trial that would send her
away for life.
And I'm worried about what my legs looked like
.
She should be finalizing her plan of action. While she had
waited, she had decided the worst thing about all of this was
that others were making decisions for her. Decisions she didn't
like.
Watching some talk show, she had learned the term
proactive. That's what she needed to do here. If she wanted
some say in her future, she couldn't continue to sit back and let
others trample all over her. After much consideration, she had
decided that no fortune, large or small, was worth the lives of
those she loved.
She would simply give the money to charity and everyone
could go home.
To be honest with herself, she admitted the glamour of
living the rest of her life being catered to and waited on was a
real temptation. Especially since she and her dad worked so
hard. They never took a vacation or closed the shop, except for
Mondays. Even then, they worked in the garage–mostly out of
habit from the days when they wanted to build a good
reputation, but how much luxury could they enjoy if they were
dead?
The officer stopped at a nondescript door. No hint at what
might lay beyond. She forced herself to breathe as the young
cop rapped his middle knuckle on the door twice and opened it
without waiting for an answer. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she muttered and stepped inside.
The door swung closed slowly, revealing first Mitch, then
her father. She smiled in relief and in greeting. Then she
noticed the looks on their faces and the two rigid men at the
head of the long conference table. Her smile dissolved.
Whoever these strangers were, judging by Mitch's and her
father's matching unibrows of worry, they didn't bring good
news.
She grasped the back of the only empty chair and exhaled.
Time to be proactive. "Okay, guys, this is what I've come up
with. I want to give my inheritance to charity. I don't want the
money if it means that my family and I will be threatened for
the rest of our lives. So, we'll give it away and everyone can
go home."
There, she had said it. She looked at her audience and her
heart sank. Mitch was already shaking his head, her father
refused to meet her eyes, and the two men at the head of the
table glanced at each other with brows raised.
The one on the right, who looked like he'd eaten too much
cheese, said, "I'm Special Agent Mordstrom and this is Special
Agent Davis of the FBI. Please have a seat, Ms. Owen."
The FBI? What next? The CIA? Might as well call in the
Marines while they were at it
.
Nonplused, Jess sat down. She couldn't compete with the
experts. They hadn't even responded, at least vocally, to her
plan. "I'm sitting. Now tell me what you have against my idea.
I don't see any reason it won't work."
"Ma'am," Mordstrom said. "I'm afraid it's impossible."
"Mitch said I was next in line to inherit. That doesn't
mean I have to accept, does it?" She glanced at her father for
support, but he still refused to look at her. Mitch shook his
head again. She wanted to ask him why he disagreed, but
Davis spoke first.
"You are next in line to inherit, but until you do, you can't
decide anything regarding your family's estate."
Her family. How odd that he should refer to her mother as
part of her family. The woman had given up the title of mother
when she'd taken off and never returned. "So, what do I need
to do to get control? Sign a paper, something else?"
"No, Jess," Mitch said. "It's not like that. I think you
misunderstood."
"Misunderstood what?" Angry, Jess wanted them to know
what it meant to lie to her, how much got all screwed up simply
because they wanted to treat her like a kid who couldn't hear
the truth. "What part of 'my mother's dead' do you think I
didn't get?"
Mitch winced. "I never said your mother was dead. I said
you were next in line."
Jess sat back in her chair and tried to keep her jaw from
dropping. Could he mean what she thought he did?
"Jess," her father said from down the table. When she
didn't turn away from Mitch, he cleared his throat and said her
name louder. "Jess."
She looked at him, prepared for anything now.
"Your mother's not dead, hon. She's in a coma, but she
ain't dead." He had the decency to look ashamed of himself. "I
didn't know you thought she was dead. I woulda put you at
ease sooner."
"At ease? You think anything in my life has ever been at
ease? The only thing I could ever count on was that you'd be
honest with me." Jess felt the agents and Mitch grow
uncomfortable as they tried to look somewhere other than the
father and daughter fighting long distance over the table.
"I'm sorry, darlin." He tugged on the ends of his beard
and shifted his gaze to the agents, to Mitch, and then back on
her. "But this ain't the time or place."
"At this point, I don't think it matters much. They all
know my family history better than I do." She stopped,
realizing it was true. Tears cut into the corners of her eyes and
she pressed the heels of her hands over her lids to contain them.
One of the agents cleared his throat. Lowering her hands, she
blinked at Davis's sympathetic look.
"I'm sorry to interrupt ma'am. I understand this must be
very hard for you." He opened a file before him. "But I think I
might be able to clear up some things rather quickly."
Jess nodded, unable to trust her voice and utterly
exhausted from trying to make sense of her life and the lies.
Right now, she would be glad to hear something factual. Get a
little of that family history everyone else knew.
Proactive
sucks
.
Davis touched his first finger. "One, your grandfather
died of a lethal dose of potassium. Two." He pointed at his
second finger and Jess had the irrational thought that it was apt,
this was where her life got screwed–on the middle finger.
"Then, your mother was targeted and although she escaped the
first attempt, she went under house protection."
"And hired me." Mitch added. "As a bodyguard."
"That's right," Davis said, a bit impatient at having been
interrupted. He lifted a third finger. "Next, your mother was
shot by a sniper last week and now she's under guard at a
private hospital. We believe the man behind the murders-forhire decided to focus on you now. As the easier target."
It made sense, but Jess wasn't sure her idea couldn't still
work. "What if I refuse to be named beneficiary? I mean,
don't I have any say in who puts my name where?"
"I have no idea if that's possible, but if you could," Agent
Mordstrom said, "I don't know if it would be enough. He
might eliminate you simply to stay on the safe side. This
person is powerful enough and determined enough to hire men
half a country away. This isn't a third-rate criminal we're up
against."
"If it's Grady, than you are. He's got more money than
brains." Mitch muttered.
"Who's Grady?"
"You're step-uncle," Mitch explained.
"Step-uncle?"
Agent Davis flipped a page in the file and answered
without looking up. "Your grandfather had a second wife who
had a grown child from another marriage. The will clearly
states that his ex-wife and her kin are not to receive any benefit
from the estate."
"Then why would you think Grady's behind this?" Jess
asked Mitch, who looked at her with skepticism in his
chocolate eyes.
"I didn't say he was behind this. The LAPD have made
him their number one suspect. Honestly, I don't agree. He's
loaded already, even if he's a binge gambler. The theory is,
with that much dough backing him, he could hire a team of
lawyers to get the inheritance, if there are no remaining
beneficiaries."
Jess may have spent the last twenty-four hours suspicious
of Mitch's intentions, but she believed him a heck of a lot more
than the FBI. Even if he'd led her to think her mother was
dead.