Running Blind (10 page)

“He has his son, his parents, his friends. Why is he insisting on also having you?”

“Because Magdalena and I were as close as sisters.”

“Maybe.”

“What other reason could he have?” Jenna glanced at Officer Daniels who stood a few feet away.

“I don't know. Perhaps he's just the kind of person who likes to manipulate others.”

“That's a horrible thing to say.”

“Even if it's true?”

“It isn't. Magdalena would never have married someone like that.”

“How well did she know him when they married?”

It was a good question. A fair question. And the fact was, John had swept Magdalena off her feet. They'd met in college, dated for just a few months before they'd become engaged and had been married less than a year later. That wasn't something Jenna planned to share, though. Not while John sat in the car waiting and Officer Daniels stood pretending not to listen. “How about we discuss this another time?”

“I'll pick you up tomorrow morning and take you to breakfast. We'll chat then.”

“I—”

“Is nine o'clock too early?”

She should say it was. Even better, she should tell him that she wouldn't have breakfast with him at all. “No, nine o'clock is fine.”

“Good.” He grinned, flashing straight white teeth and a dimple that Jenna had never noticed before.

“I'll see you then.” She turned, but he grabbed her hand before she could get in the car, leaning in close, speaking just loudly enough for Jenna to hear.

“If you need me, call. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Just a pen.” She dug it out of her purse, and he took it, turning her hand over and writing on her palm. The pen point tickled her skin as he scribbled his number.

“Copy it onto paper when you get to his place.”

“All right.”

“I don't trust that guy, so don't spend a lot of time alone with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just a gut feeling. He's got more on his mind than the reading of the will and reminiscing about his wife. Stay safe, okay?”

“I will.”

He nodded, hesitating for a moment longer, then walked away.

Jenna watched until he disappeared from sight, feeling more lonely with every step he took. It would have been easy to call out to him. To tell him that she'd changed her mind, that she didn't want to go back to John's showy house and his quietly stuffy parents.

But she didn't.

“You ready, Jenna?” John called out, and she nodded, turning back to the car, offering a brief wave at Officer Daniels as she got into the BMW.

Classical music poured from the radio, the sound doing nothing to soothe Jenna's raw nerves. She'd planned to be on the way home by now. Instead, she was heading back to the house where she'd nearly been killed.

She hoped she'd made the right choice.

She prayed she had.

But she didn't know.

And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

N
ikolai paced the living room of his small apartment, watching as the second hand of the clock slowly made its circuit. One minute. Two. Three. Time seemed to pass in excruciatingly slow moments, and there was nothing he could do to speed it up.

It was going to be a very long night.

He walked into the kitchen and pulled a cold soda from the refrigerator. It wasn't something he drank often, but it hit the spot when what he really craved was a cold beer.

A cold beer and a cigarette. The two went hand in hand, and both were part of his life before.

Before the bomb that had nearly killed him.

Before the months he'd spent in a VA hospital.

Before he'd realized that he wanted more out of life than black lungs and a pickled liver. He wanted relationships. He wanted connection. He wanted to live life without booze to numb the experience.

Now, Nikolai chewed mint gum and drank soda. He faced life's pain head-on and poured his heart out to God instead of pouring his drug of choice down his throat. That's the decision Nikolai had made when he'd left the VA hospital. Nearly two and half years later, he hadn't veered from it.

Sometimes, though, he was tempted.

This was definitely one of those times.

He pulled open the fridge, scanning the shelves and
frowning at the meager pickings. He needed to go shopping, but it was a chore he hated. Too many people. Too much noise. He liked solitude and silence. Though right about now, he would have gladly faced airport crowds and noise to get Jenna out of John Romero's house.

Something wasn't right about the guy. Nikolai couldn't put his finger on what it was, but he didn't like the man. Or maybe he simply didn't like the fact that Romero had manipulated Jenna into doing what she didn't want to do.

He grabbed a piece of cheese from the fridge, dropped it onto whole wheat bread and glanced at the clock again. Too early to do much of anything, but that didn't mean there was nothing he could do. He carried the sandwich to his desk, booted up his computer and typed Romero's name into the search engine. The guy was mentioned several times in recent newspaper stories about Magdalena's death. “Her grieving husband, John Romero…” seemed to be the catchphrase of every reporter in Houston.

Was
he grieving?

There were as many ways to grieve as there were people, but in Nikolai's mind John had been more concerned with showing off his home and his wealth than he'd been in remembering his wife. Perhaps that was simply the guy's way of coping with his grief. Or maybe Romero didn't miss his wife nearly as much as the rest of the world seemed to.

What had the couple's relationship been like?

Did John benefit from Magdalena's death in any way?

An unsettling thought, but one Nikolai needed to check into.

He typed Magdalena's name into the computer, curious about the woman that Jenna seemed so determined to defend. There were several articles about her death. Most touched on the investigation into drug trafficking and mentioned that Magdalena had been murdered execution-style. There were broad hints about the kind of activities that might have put her in danger. Less recent articles painted the doctor in a more
positive light. Philanthropist. Healer. Friend to the friendless. Those were the kinds of things reporters had said before her death.

Which was the truth?

His cell phone rang as he clicked on an article about Magdalena's medical outreach to rural areas of Mexico. Surprised, he glanced at his watch. Three-thirty in the morning was an odd time for someone to call. The number was unlisted, and he lifted the phone, pressing the receiver to his ear. “Jansen, here.”

“Nikolai? It's me.”

He didn't need to ask who. He knew Jenna's voice almost instinctively, and he stood, grabbing his jacket and keys. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her voice broke, and Nikolai opened his apartment door. Whatever was going on, he wasn't going to wait around for her to start screaming for help.

“Then why does it sound like you're crying?”

“I'm not.” She sniffed, making a lie of the words.

“I'm coming over.”

“No. That's not why I called.”

“Then why did you?” He jogged to his car, climbed in and started the engine.

“I…shouldn't have.” She sniffed again. Sad rather than scared. That's how she sounded, and Nikolai knew there was no real need to drive over to the Romero house.

Except that Jenna was there, and she sounded like she could use a friend. He knew how that felt. How easily memories could fill the mind during the darkest hours of the night. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Don't come. I shouldn't have called you. I don't even know why I did.”

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated, hanging up the phone.

She could tell him as many times as she wanted that she didn't need him to come, that she didn't want him to come, but he wouldn't believe it. There were things that only someone
who'd experienced them could understand. Walking through enemy fire and surviving, seeing a comrade fall—Jenna had done those things in a different way than Nikolai had, but he still understood her fears and her guilt. He knew what it was like to lie in bed at night and think about the men and women who hadn't survived. It was a heavy burden to bear.

He parked in front of the Romeros' driveway, scanning the darkened windows. A guest suite was usually in the basement of the house, but the Romero place was immense, and Nikolai figured it could be just about anywhere.

He got out of the car, walking across the dark front yard. No dog barked. No sign announced an alarm system. It seemed inconceivable that a house the size of this one had no security system, but there was no indication that the Romero family had one.

Despite Officer Daniels's assertion that Jenna was out of danger, Nikolai was worried. Until they knew why she'd been targeted for death, they couldn't be sure that the threat was really past. It was best if everyone involved kept that in mind, and Nikolai had every intention of reminding Romero of it when he saw him next.

Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the porch, and Nikolai bypassed the area. No motion detecting lights flicked on, and the yard remained dark as he moved past the French doors. At the corner of the house a dim light shone faintly through a curtained window. He tapped on the glass. Jenna would look out, or someone else would. Either way worked.

A few seconds later, the curtain in a window to his left moved, opening just enough for someone on the other side to peek out. Nikolai offered a quick wave, stepping closer as the curtains opened wider. The room beyond was dark, but Jenna's pale face was unmistakable, her frown as clear as moonlight on a still pond.

She fumbled with the lock, then opened the window, her face pressing against the screen as she whispered. “I told you not to come.”

“Did you think I'd listen?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I guess not.”

“Can I come in?”

“There's a door on the side of the house. Meet me there.”

Nikolai did as she asked, walking around the corner of the house and waiting at a door that must have been a private entrance to the guest suite. Windows flanked either side of the door, and Nikolai saw movement in the darkness beyond. A light spilled out onto the small stoop where he stood, and the door swung open.

“You shouldn't have come, Nikolai,” Jenna said as she stepped aside and let him in. “Why not?”

“Because it's four in the morning, and we should both be sleeping.”

“But we aren't.”

“No. I guess we're not. Would you like some coffee? I've got a fresh pot brewing.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Then how about some juice or water?” She walked into a small living room, gesturing for Nikolai to sit down. Like the rest of the Romero house, the guest suite was well-equipped. The living room opened into an eat-in kitchen that sported granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. A few pricey pieces of furniture created an upscale, showy feel that Nikolai knew was absolutely intended.

“I'm fine. Thanks.” He settled onto a recliner, watching as Jenna walked into the kitchen. She'd changed into loose flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt that hung on her narrow frame. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her lips were a subtle pink. There was nothing ostentatious or showy about her, but somehow she seemed to fit perfectly into this upscale home.

She poured a cup of coffee and carried it into the living room, her movements stiff, her expression guarded. “I'm sorry I called you, Nikolai. I don't know what got into me.”

“No?”

“I just…being here is difficult.”

“You mean knowing that Magdalena isn't here with you?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, taking a sip of coffee and placing it on a marble coaster. “What's weird is that I can't really picture Magdalena in this place.”

“You mean in the guest suite?”

“I mean in the house. She didn't believe in pouring money into material things.” She glanced around the room, her brow furrowed.

“The house says something different about her.”

“I guess so. Maybe that's what's bothering me. None of this seems real. Not this fancy house or John's fancy car. Not the housekeeper or the catered reception after the funeral. Magdalena wouldn't have wanted any of this.” She bit her lip and turned away, walking to a gas fireplace. A large picture hung above it—an impressionist painting of a field of flowers whose subtle colors blended into the décor. Jenna stared at it for a moment, her arms hugging her waist.

“It's okay.” Nikolai walked to her side, not touching her. Just being there. Offering her what little comfort he could.

“No. It's really not. She's never coming back to this house or her husband or her son. Why? That's what I keep asking myself. It's why I can't sleep. That and…” She shook her head, and rubbed the back of her neck.

“You're here and she's not?”

She nodded, and Nikolai put a hand on her shoulder, felt the tautness of her muscles. She was holding her emotions in, bottling them up tight. It was another thing that he understood, another thing they had in common.

“Sometimes that is the hardest thing of all to accept.” He spoke quietly, his hand sliding from her shoulder to the nape of her neck. Smooth skin and silky hair, the sweet scent of vanilla drifting around him. For a moment Nikolai forgot that his purpose was to comfort Jenna. For a moment he forgot that
she was a woman he'd known for less than a week, a woman who'd been through too much.

She met his gaze, her eyes widening, her pulse racing beneath his fingers. She felt what he did. The tug of awareness. The sudden reality that they were a man and a woman standing alone in a quiet room.

He could have easily lost himself in the moment, let the feeling grow between them until neither could deny it. But Jenna deserved more than that. She deserved time to grieve for her loss, to accept it.

When she stepped away, he let her go, his hand falling to his side.

“I wish I could have saved her. I wish she'd come walking through the door, asking me what I was doing entertaining a man after hours.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away impatiently.

“Would she have?”

“She was that kind of person. All about rules and propriety and living life the right way. Ask anyone, and you'll hear the same thing.”

“Perhaps that was her downfall.” Nikolai spoke the thought aloud, and Jenna nodded, thick strands of hair falling across her forehead.

“I've been thinking the same thing. If she knew something that could have caused trouble for the Panthers, that might have been enough to get her killed.”

“What could she have known? That's the question we must ask ourselves. The Mexican Panthers have been around for decades. One American woman would not have had access to the sort of information that could have stopped their production and distribution. Why risk bringing the DEA down on their organization by murdering a U.S. citizen?”

“I hadn't thought of that.” Jenna's eyes were dark-rimmed, her skin drawn tight against her cheekbones.

“I'm sure the police have. That's why they are so determined to believe Magdalena was trafficking in illegal drugs.
If she betrayed the trust the Panthers put in her, they would have retaliated quickly and brutally.”

“The police are wrong. I keep telling you and everyone else that, but no one is listening.”

“I'm listening.” He spoke quietly, knowing that Jenna was more angry about her friend's death than she was about the police investigation or his questions.

“It's just not right, Nikolai. Magdalena lived an upright life. She had a strong faith and a strong sense of justice. Everyone who knew her loved her.”

And yet she was dead.

Nikolai didn't say what he was thinking. It wouldn't help, and could only hurt Jenna more than she already had been. “We'll prove that she was the woman you remember.”

“I hope so.” She rubbed her forehead, and Nikolai could see pain in her eyes.

“Headache?”

“You could say that.”

“But you wouldn't?”

“A headache doesn't come close to describing the pain shooting through my head.”

“Do you have medicine?”

“The doctor prescribed some, but I haven't taken any yet.”

“Where is it?”

“In my purse. In the bedroom.” She gestured to a door on the far wall.

“Here,” Nikolai said, leading her to the couch. “Lie down. I'll get the medicine and some water.”

“You've done enough already. I can manage.” But even as she said it, she was settling onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow under her head and closing her eyes.

Nikolai walked into the small bedroom, scanning the room until he spotted Jenna's purse. A small bottle of pills was in the front pocket, and he poured one of the tablets into his hand.