The Killing Game (7 page)

“Be a writer,” Dallas had told him. “Your partner’s a crackpot who’s nearing retirement but won’t retire. Unless they force him out, you’re stuck with him for more of your life than you need to be. It’s worse than a marriage. Go back to writing that stuff you did in college.”

Easy for Dallas to say. Yes, he liked writing, but he wasn’t a great writer. He knew that. His best attempts were filling out reports. He had a technical mind, and it was restful putting things down in chronological order. But a writer? Of fiction?
Yeah, sure, Dal. I’ll get started on that right away . . .

He drove to his office in a dark mood, annoyed by the uncommon humidity that seemed to hang in the air like an invisible shroud. It wasn’t his nature to be gloomy, but Iris, and the hovering hangover that hadn’t fully presented itself yet, was getting to him. He parked his truck in the spot behind the back door that led to his office. The door was rust-colored, from paint and maybe just because it was, and it was one of many other rust-colored doors that lined the back of the strip mall. He’d rented the one-room space alongside the Asian fusion restaurant for next to nothing. The scent of curry occasionally wove through the air, which had a tendency to draw him like a cartoon finger of aroma, beckoning him inside, but otherwise his office was exactly what he needed.

He sat around and shuffled papers and kept an eye on the clock. It was early. Still time to hit the hearing. He wanted to support Bolchoy, but he didn’t want to get snagged by more reporters; they always pissed him off. Still . . .

He headed out at eight-fifteen, fighting the snarl of traffic that took him east on the Sunset. He almost didn’t make it in time and then had to pay for parking three blocks away. It was hot and his shirt was sticking to him. He hurried up the steps, but sure enough, that piranha of a reporter, Pauline Kirby, was standing in his way.

“Mr. Denton,” she called loudly. “How do you think the hearing will go for your friend, er, ex-partner, Ray Bolchoy?”

“I’m hoping the judge sees there’s no reason to go to trial.”

“So, you don’t think the charges against Bolchoy are credible?”

“What I think doesn’t matter.” He tried to move past her, but she kept with him, step for step.

“But you believe in Bolchoy’s innocence.”

Innocent
wasn’t a word he would choose for Ray Bolchoy. We all just want this in the rearview,” he said, then ducked inside.

He took a seat toward the rear and waited while everyone got set up. He saw the Carrera boys seated across the aisle from him. They both wore those supercilious smiles he detested, but he tamped down his frustration as he watched the defense and prosecution put up their evidence. It was difficult at first to tell which way the judge was going to rule until the prosecution couldn’t come up with the false confessions Bolchoy had allegedly turned in. Luke gazed in surprise at his old partner, who sat stoically beside his lawyer. He suspected Bolchoy had done exactly what he was accused of. He was a man out for justice, whether it was legal or not. But if there was no evidence then maybe . . . ?

It took the judge less than ten minutes to rule there wasn’t enough evidence for trial. Luke felt like shouting and would have, except for the pounding in his head. Instead he settled for a victory smile he made sure the Carrera brothers saw. They both sported stone visages with cold glares.

Luke left the courthouse and sneaked around the crowd to avoid the Kirby woman, though she spotted him and tried to chase him down. He ran through a McDonald’s drive-through on his way back to the office and picked up a coffee with cream. His headache was a dull throb, barely discernible. The joy over Bolchoy’s victory made everything else seem less of a problem.

Of course his old partner was still out of a job. Maybe the union would get him back in, but the captain had never liked him and the feeling was mutual. Bolchoy was nearing retirement, but he didn’t seem any too anxious to give up the work he loved. If he wanted his job back, Luke hoped he would get it, though he thought it was unlikely.

Luke wheeled into the parking lot at 11:19. His 11:30 appointment was with Helena Garcia, a skittish woman who felt her husband, Carlos, a Colombian native who had become a naturalized citizen, was planning to kidnap their young daughter and take her back to his home country. The fact that said husband was a pretty happy guy who’d started his own landscaping company after working years for another firm and, from what Luke had discovered, was gaining clients all the time, didn’t speak to her fears very well. Luke had tried to tell her as much, but she’d just gotten mad at him, and then, for a moment, when she’d snatched up his stapler and drawn her arm back as if it to hurl it at him, he’d wondered if maybe she was the unstable one and was projecting her own plans to possibly kidnap their child on Carlos.

She’d managed to put the stapler down, but it had taken her a while. Too long, in Luke’s biased opinion. He’d carefully tried to counsel her. “Your husband doesn’t seem to have any reason to leave the country. I talked to a couple of his clients. Called them up and asked what they thought of his work, and all I got back were glowing reports.”

“It’s all a fake!” Helena was a redhead with a temperament to match.

“I picked the clients at random. I could go down the list and call every name you gave me. Maybe there’s somebody who doesn’t like him, but . . .” He’d trailed off, leaving her to hopefully see the waste of time ahead of him.

But she hadn’t. “I have to take Emily away. It’s the only way to keep her safe.”

“Now, Helena, that’s a bad idea.”

He’d further explained that
she
would be breaking the law, not Carlos, and he’d thought he’d gotten through to her. Then, yesterday, she’d called up screaming. Carlos had apparently picked up Emily from day care without telling Helena, and when she’d gone to collect her, Emily wasn’t there. She’d immediately called Luke on his cell phone, read him the riot act up one side and down the other. Then she’d returned home to find her husband’s truck in the driveway and Carlos and Emily inside the house sharing bowls of ice cream.

She’d called Luke back to tell him, but she hadn’t apologized for her rant. Now Helena was due to meet him at his office and sure enough, almost on the dot, he saw the silhouette of a woman outside the obscured glass of his office door. He expected her to just bust in, as she was wont to do, but this time she hesitated. Maybe she’d thought over her behavior after all. Curious, Luke got up to open the door, but then the handle twisted and the woman entered, along with a blast of blinding, hot September air that damn near broiled him where he stood. He had to lift a hand to shade his eyes in order to see her.

His visitor wasn’t Helena. This woman’s hair was soft brown and long, swept into a loose ponytail at her nape, held by a dull silver clip. Her eyes were green with thick, dark lashes, a certain wariness lurking in their depths, and her nose was straight and a trifle pointy in a way he kind of liked. Her mouth could have been kissable except for the way it was currently drawn into a thin line of disapproval or worry. She was medium height, with a taut body that looked as if she spent time at the gym, but just now she wore lightweight tan pants and a cream-colored blouse. She held a laptop bag in one hand that seemed to be her purse.

“Lucas Denton?” she asked.

It was the hottest day of the year when she strolled into his office, as cool as cherry ice cream.

The line ran through his mind unsolicited. He was torn between laughter and annoyance.
Damn you, Dallas.
He thrust out a hand. “It’s Luke.”

She held on to the doorknob a tad too long, as if she were about to make an about-face and leave. It took her a moment to shake his hand, but the handshake was firm.

“Andrea Wren. And it’s Andi.”

“Wren,” Luke repeated. He reached around her and shut the door, cutting the heat and blinding sunshine.

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“No problem.”

“Yes, I’m from those Wrens,” she admitted as Luke walked back behind his desk. He gestured to his client chairs and she chose one, smoothed the back of her skirt, and settled herself on the edge.

“I’m going to guess this has something to do with the Carrera brothers.”

She tried to smile but it didn’t reach her lips. “This morning I was approached by Brian Carrera. Threatened by him, actually. I know your story, and I wondered if you would help me find a way to put the Carrera brothers away for good. Legally.”

Luke was trying to place her. Not the sister. That woman was a bit shorter and heavier. “You’re Gregory Wren’s widow?”

“Yes.”

“How were you threatened?”

“I was at the gym and he was on the treadmill next to mine. Your . . . ex-partner’s case came up on the TV and you were interviewed.”

“Ah.” Luke made a face.

“Brian started talking to me, and I realized who he was. He said something to the effect that it would be better if we all got along. How the Carreras were good friends and bad enemies.”

“Well, that’s definitely true.”

“I don’t want to go to the police. With this lawsuit against your partner, it seems like they’re all just covering their . . . covering for themselves.”

“They are covering their asses,” he agreed. “But they also do their jobs. The Carreras don’t play nice. You’re right to be concerned.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He noticed how flawless her skin was. “Did Carrera say or do anything else?”

“He told me that I need to make sure my brother- and sister-in-law understand that part, about being better friends than enemies.”

“I’d like nothing more than to put the Carrera brothers away for the rest of their natural lives,” he stated flatly.

That netted him her first real smile. She’d set the bag beside her chair, but now she reached into it and gingerly pulled out a white letter-sized envelope with ANDREA printed on the front. She carefully unfolded the paper from it and slid it across his desk.

Written in block print was:
Little birds need to fly.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I just bought a cabin on Schultz Lake and last night this was waiting for me, on the bed. This morning Brian Carrera was on the treadmill next to me.”

“You think he left it for you?”

“I’ve never had any contact with him before, so why is he targeting me? How did he know about my cabin? But I don’t know who else would have left the note. It feels like a threat. I just . . .” She trailed off. Luke tried to hand the note back to her, but she shook her head. “Keep it.”

He stared down at the message. “It’s a play on your last name.”

“The lock on the cabin’s front door was broken, so anyone could have wandered in. Or maybe they broke in. I don’t know. I called my real estate agent and she was going to send someone out to repair it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to find out who sent me the note. If it was the Carreras, I want to stop them, make sure they can’t get away with threatening me, or any one of us.”

“But no police.”

“No police.” Her green gaze was steady, but he sensed the tension coiled within her. “I don’t know what the range of your services is, but I may also need protection.”

“Personal protection?”

She shifted in her seat. “I have . . .” She seemed uncertain how to continue. He waited, knowing sometimes silence worked better than questions. “I have an issue I learned about yesterday that I’m still working out.”

“What kind of issue?”

She was silent so long he thought she might not answer him. Then she drew in a breath and expelled it in a rush. “I’m . . . pregnant,” she blurted out. “About three months. It’s my husband’s. I’m still adjusting to the news, and I really don’t know what to do about the Carreras, but I want to feel safe. I want my baby to be safe.”

As Lucas absorbed that information, the smell of eastern spices drifted to his nose. It apparently reached hers, too, because she turned toward the aroma like a bloodhound with a scent.

“Any chance you and the baby might like some Thai-ish food?” he asked, hooking a thumb toward the wall that separated his office from the restaurant.

“Thai-ish?”

“Asian fusion.”

She relaxed a bit for the first time. “The baby and I would love it.”

Chapter Four

They headed out together and he was locking the door to his office when he remembered Helena. She was late, not the first time she’d forgotten the time or been a no-show. Still ...

“Go on in and get out of the heat. I gotta make a call.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

“Okay, but ...” He trailed off as he looked across the front lot and saw Helena slam the door on her Ford Escape. She saw him, too, and barreled his way. “I had a client scheduled for eleven-thirty,” he explained to Andi. “I thought you were her, but there she is now.”

Andi looked past him toward Helena, whose red hair was flying out behind her like a cape as she stalked toward Lucas. “Hmm. I’ll get that table,” Andi said and wisely headed inside.

Helena flicked a glance at Andi’s retreating back as she approached Luke. “Who was that?”

“Someone I’m meeting for lunch. You were late.”

“Barely. Carlos wants full custody of Emily and it’s your fault!”

“Whoa ... whoa ... How is it my fault? And since when are you getting a divorce?”

“Since I filed papers last week. Now, all of a sudden, he wants to be a daddy, and he’s never been there for her!”

That was patently untrue, but Luke knew better than to say so. He guided Helena back to his office and hustled her inside. “Make it quick,” he told her.

“Why? So you can meet your
date
?”

“Helena, Carlos hasn’t shown any indication that he’s anything but a model parent. I never found anything that said otherwise. I’m not a lawyer, but—”

“You didn’t try hard enough. Now he’s going to take Emily away from me!”

“He can’t do that. Neither of you can.”

“I’ve got to get away from him. He’s a crazy man. You just don’t see it.”