Sweet Talk (14 page)

FIFTEEN

G
rayson asked Ronan to take over the MacKenzie investigation and to assign another agent to assist. Ronan refused.

The football was flying across the office as the two men argued. It was late, after nine in the evening, and both Ronan and Grayson were sitting at their desks catching up on paperwork. They had already discussed pending investigations, none of which were pressing, and then they began to talk about the progress on Olivia’s case. That was when the argument started.

“I’m serious,” Grayson insisted. “I’m going to remove myself from the investigation. I’ll talk to Pensky tomorrow.”

Ronan hurled the football to Grayson. “No, don’t talk to her. I’ll take the lead, but you’re staying on. You can assist. Or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Distance yourself from Olivia until we get the shooter.”

That was easier said than done. Grayson couldn’t get her out of his mind. All he wanted to think about was taking her to bed again. “I don’t know if I can distance myself.”

“Jeez, Kincaid. What happened to your discipline?”

Ronan feigned disgust, which made Grayson laugh. “I don’t know what the hell happened to it.”

“It’s different with her?” Ronan asked, serious now.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so you care about her.”

“Of course I care.” He was getting irritated. He put a spin on the football and sent it spiraling back to Ronan.

“Tell me how you can walk away.”

“I’m not walking away—”

Ronan interrupted. “Do you think someone else—besides me, of course—could do a better job protecting her and finding the shooter? You’d put her safety in someone else’s hands?”

“I trust you to do the job,” he snapped, “but no one else.”

Ronan was hitting a nerve. Grayson didn’t want to leave the case, but he didn’t know how he was going to keep his objectivity.

“I’m not working this without you,” Ronan said. “Don’t talk to Pensky. All right?”

Grayson snatched the football from the air and held on to it as he thought about his options. Finally, he gave in. “Yeah, okay, for now anyway. I’ll find a way to keep my distance.”

“Good.” Ronan swiveled in his chair and picked up a notepad from his desk. “I’ve got another name to put on the list of suspects.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Jorguson’s bodyguard. Remember him?”

“The tank? That’s what I felt like I was hitting when I tackled him. His name is Ray Martin.”

“Jorguson fired him, blamed the whole incident on him.”

Grayson laughed. “I thought he blamed Olivia. Didn’t he say it was all her fault?”

“For a little while he did. Then it became a misunderstanding. Jorguson just found out Olivia’s going to testify against him, and now there’s a court date set.”

“His attorneys will delay, probably keep it out of court for at least a year, maybe two.”

Ronan didn’t disagree. “Jorguson pointed the finger at Martin. He said after he was fired, Martin ranted to some people that it was all Olivia’s fault, actually said he was going to get even with her.”

“Who did he say that to?”

“According to Jorguson, Martin made the threat in front of him and his assistant, Xavier Cannon. He claims he said it to a couple of clients. We’ve checked them out, and these clients have less-than-stellar reputations themselves.”

“They’re setting up Martin so the heat’s off Jorguson.”

“Could be,” Ronan agreed. “Guess what Martin drives?”

“Tell me.” He spun the football with one hand then sent it in a high arc across the room.

“Brand-new black SUV. Ford Explorer, to be exact.” Ronan caught the ball and lobbed it back. “There’s more,” he told him. “I sent two agents over to his place. Martin lives a couple of blocks from that drug house we broke into to get the kid for Olivia.”

“Gangland.”

“Yes,” he said. “The agents showed up to bring him in for questioning, and right there in plain sight on the table was a whole display of weapons. Gave the agents cause to search the rest of the house. They found an arsenal. Turns out Martin has a thriving business on the side selling guns to the neighbors. He said he just wanted to help them protect their homes.”

“Now see, that makes him a nice guy.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“What about George Anderson?” Grayson asked.

“I did what you suggested and had one of our agents in Las Vegas check out the loan shark, figuring he’s like all the others—you know, a real businessman who breaks legs and arms to get his clients to pay up but doesn’t see the feasibility in killing them because then he’d never get paid. Anderson’s loan shark, Subway, is different. Every now and then one of his clients turns up dead. Looks like he’s sending a message to other slackers. Word is, he gave Anderson a deadline. He’s got three months to pay it all back.”

“Do you think Anderson would know how to find a shooter?”

“No, but I think Subway would have names, and if Anderson mentioned how much money his wife would get if Olivia were dead, then, yeah, I think he’d help him find a driver and a shooter. He might have hired them for Anderson.”

“Anderson’s a weasel . . .”

“Is he capable of hiring a hit?”

Grayson didn’t have to think about it. “To save himself, yes. But then, so is Martin.”

“Then there’s also the possibility it was random. It could be a gang initiation. She was about the only person out during that freakish snowstorm. A blizzard that early in the season is unusual, and weathermen had only predicted flurries, so how does a kid anxious to get in a gang pass the test when there’s no one around to kill? Maybe Olivia was just a handy target.”

Grayson realized he was holding the football and tossed it back to Ronan. “She’s made a lot of people who haven’t paid their taxes very angry.”

Ronan offered yet another option. “What about the kids she’s helped? One of their relatives or guardians could be out for vengeance.”

“I’ve talked to Judge Thorpe and Judge Bowen, and they gave me the names of the boys and girls she’s been assigned. I tell you, Ronan, some of the places she’s gone into, some of the god-awful situations those kids were in . . . I would have unloaded my gun on all of them once I got the kids out.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. You would have wanted to, but you would have taken them in.”

“I swear I don’t know how she does it,” Grayson said. “She admitted she likes working for the IRS, partly because it’s more mundane and balances out the horrors she sees in the other job.”

“Were there any suspects? Relatives of these kids who want her dead?”

Grayson caught the ball, tucked it under his arm, and shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk until he found the one he wanted. He skimmed over it and said, “Two cousins of one little boy. Guess she really nailed them in court. They each got twenty years.”

“So we’ve got motive . . .”

“Neither one of them have the connections outside of prison or the funds to hire a hit. I’ve got a few others I’m still checking out, but nothing looks promising.”

“I want it to be Carl Simmons, her dad’s attorney. After I interviewed that son of a bitch, I really wanted it to be him. Listening to all the trash he was talking about Olivia, trying to get her fired, calling her crazy . . .”

“She’s been getting threatening phone calls,” Grayson said. “She thinks it’s Simmons. He disguises his voice, but she’s pretty sure it’s him. He only calls her cell phone number . . .”

“Were you able to trace the number back?”

“Every call came from a different public phone.”

“Every call?”

“Olivia told me there have been four in all.”

“Is she scared?”

“No, she’s angry.”

Ronan nodded. “You know who Simmons reminds me of? A game show host. He’s got this phony yellowish-brown tan and these capped teeth that are a little too big for his mouth, and the color is beyond white. Creepy smile, too. He’s tall and skinny, and when he opens his mouth, it’s freaky.”

“A real lady-killer, huh?”

Ronan laughed. “Funny thing is, he could be. I’d like it if he was the shooter,” he repeated. “I’d like it a lot. Put his tanned ass in prison.”

Grayson tossed the football into an open file drawer and turned his computer off. “Olivia’s due to go back to work,” he said. “How much longer will there be a protection detail?”

“I’m getting pushed now to end it,” Ronan said. “Another week, maybe, but the budget . . .”

“I understand,” Grayson said. “I’ll take over and pay for it. I don’t want her to know that, though. I’ll hire some off-duty policemen I know and trust.” As he grabbed his coat and put it on, he added, “I’ll help out, too.”

Ronan was searching for one of his gloves. He knelt on one knee and located it under the desk across from him where he’d tossed his coat. “For how long?” he asked.

“Until we make an arrest.”

Ronan followed Grayson outside. “That could take awhile. I look at the list and I ask myself, who doesn’t want to kill her?”

* * *

It had been two weeks since Olivia had seen Grayson. The last time they were together they had spent several passionate hours making love. Then nothing . . . not even a phone call to say, “Hello, how are you doing?”

She knew she probably should have been furious with him, but she wasn’t. After the first time he’d kissed her, she hadn’t seen him or heard from him for two long months. It took a shooting to get him to remember her. Maybe this was going to be a long hiatus as well. Grayson was a busy man, she reminded herself, with a nine-year-old he was now raising—though she didn’t know if that was a temporary or a permanent situation—and his father, Edward Kincaid, was recovering from a massive heart attack.

Emma had given her the details about his father’s condition. She said that the cardiac surgeon had called the heart attack the widow maker, and if Grayson’s father hadn’t gone to the emergency room when he’d first experienced symptoms, and if the cardiac surgeon hadn’t been right there to take over, Edward Kincaid wouldn’t have made it.

Olivia understood why Grayson couldn’t take time for her. No, she wasn’t angry with him, but she was damned irritated. How long would a phone call take? Or even an e-mail or a text? No time at all. Exactly.

It was Friday afternoon, and she was about to do a favor for a coworker so that he and his family could leave early to catch a flight to Miami for a long weekend. She had volunteered to drop off some papers, and she was looking forward to her errand. The company she was going to visit unannounced was called Nutrawonder Works, a vitamin distribution company. It was owned and operated by William Hood, who, according to the notes she’d been given, had raised suspicion that he’d been ripping off the government for several years. The IRS wanted to go through his records to prove it and also to find evidence that he had been ripping off his employees as well by falsely reporting contributions to their pension fund. The word
bully
was underlined in red on the report.

Olivia didn’t plan to walk into Nutrawonder alone. She was going to take an armed IRS agent with her, but as it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. Just as she picked up the phone, Grayson walked in.

She put the phone down and watched him walk toward her. Don’t stare, she told herself, yet she continued to do just that. Her mind scrambled for ways to get over her nervousness, and the advice she’d once been given before ascending a podium to speak in front of a crowd popped into her head: Think of him naked. She tried that trick, but a picture of his magnificent body appeared and had her suddenly feeling breathless and hot. Okay, that was a bad plan. Don’t think of him naked, she told herself.

She could feel her cheeks getting warmer. She opened her desk drawer, took out her inhaler, and used it. God, how telling was that?

Grayson stopped in front of her desk. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked casually. “I’ll drive you home.”

She was still too rattled to come up with a witty and stinging reply. She nodded, then shook her head. “The policeman drove me here.”

“I’ve sent him home. Another guard will be at your front door at ten tonight. Until then, you’ve got me.”

No apology, no excuses, and not a hint of embarrassment or guilt. All right. If that was the way he wanted to play it, she’d go along. She could be just as aloof.

“I have to make a stop before I go home. I need to drop off some papers.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s not going to be a pleasant meeting. You might need your weapon.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He was Mr. Cool, leaning against the desk looking relaxed and . . . mellow. Yes, that was the word to describe him: mellow. Her nerves were raw. She had worried and wondered about him for the last two weeks, but here he stood, calm and collected. Obviously, he hadn’t been thinking about her. She wanted to kick him and kiss him at the same time.

She put the papers she was going to take to Nutrawonder in a legal envelope and sealed it. Then she got her purse out of the bottom drawer and started throwing personal items inside. Her cell phone went in first, then her indulgences: M&M’s, a protein bar she’d been carrying around for a couple of months but refused to eat because the last one tasted like sawdust, and a cold bottled water she’d just gotten out of the refrigerator.

“You forgot your inhaler,” he said. “It’s in your middle drawer.”

“No, I have one in my purse. I always keep an extra one here.”

“You might want to check. I saw two in your drawer when you opened it.”

He didn’t miss anything, did he? She might have two in her desk, but she always carried one with her . . . except today. She ended up emptying everything in her purse onto her desk and realized then that she had put the one she always carried with her in the drawer.

“Oh . . . I didn’t realize . . . I don’t do that. Thanks for noticing.”

What else had he noticed? How nervous she was? That was a given, she decided. She put the inhaler where it belonged and was ready to leave. Even while she was telling herself she didn’t care, she was wishing she’d taken the time this morning to put on something a little fancier. Her pale pink silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and black flats were so ordinary. She could at least have worn high heels or boots. What had she been thinking? That it was freezing outside, that’s what. Wearing high heels in this snow was asking for a broken ankle. And when she wore boots, her feet always got hot while she worked at her desk. Still, she should have put a little effort into her appearance. She hadn’t even bothered to put her hair up or curl it. The thick mass was down around her shoulders. She nervously pushed a strand away from her face as she walked toward him.