Born Wild (18 page)

Bill frowned. “Perhaps it
would
be better for her to get out of Chicago for a while. In case you're right about someone trying to make another attempt on her life.”

“Mmph,” Washington grunted, scowling at the floor with his lower lip thrust out. “I suppose.” He glanced up at Bill. “But I wouldn't want her going alone. I could put a couple of my men—”

“No need.” Bill lifted his hand, shaking his head. “I've got it covered.”

Yeah,
Mac thought.
I'm sure you do.

“I've got a cabin over on the west side of Michigan, up near Ludington,” Bill continued, looking at Eve to see if she was okay with the plan so far. If the hero worship…no, not hero worship…
super
hero worship shining in her eyes was anything to go by, she wasn't just on board with the plan, she'd packed her bags, waved her good-byes, and was already sitting on the deck drinking a Mai Tai. “I think we could hole up there for a while. It'd give Eve the chance to get away but keep her close enough so she could drive back to the city in three or four hours if she needed to.”

Washington's eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth. But before he could agree or disagree with Bill's plan, the double doors leading to the exterior elevator bank burst open and Jeremy Buchanan strolled into the room.

“Jeremy!” Eve sobbed, ducking out from under Bill's arm to run to the man. Buchanan caught her up in a hug that lifted her feet from the station's tiled floor.

“I came as soon as my shift ended,” he said, slowly lowering her to the ground so he could pull back and look at her. “How did it go?”

“It was awful,” Eve admitted. “But now it's done.”

“Did you…” His expression and tone illustrated both his reluctance and his curiosity. “Did you find out anything when you met with your father?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Damn,” he cursed, his jaw sawing back and forth. “Well, it doesn't matter. Because I swear to you, we're going to find out who did this.”

“You mean Detective Normandy is gonna find out who did this. Right, Lieutenant?” Washington said. “From what I hear, you've got your hands full over in vice.”

“Sure. I'll let the murder boys handle it.” Jeremy laced his fingers with Eve's, and Mac was pretty sure that grinding noise he was hearing was Bill's back teeth again. Too bad they weren't sitting down at a conference table somewhere so he could kick the man in the shins. “Now that you guys actually believe what I've been saying to you for the last three months,” he added as he joined the group.

“Don't push it, Lieutenant,” Washington harrumphed. “No one likes to hear
I
told
you
so
.”

“Not gloating,” Jeremy was quick to explain. “Just happy to know something's
finally
being done.”

“Mmph.” Washington waved him off, turning back to Bill. “Now about this little sailing trip up to Ludington. I don't suppose it'd be a problem as long as—”

The gray door at the back of the room swung open, and Edens, Parish, and their lawyers stood on the threshold. Mac fleetingly wondered how much they'd heard of the conversation. Then he figured, not much. That was a steel door leading to the hall where Chicago's finest interrogated Chicago's scum. And speaking of Chicago's finest, Detective Normandy appeared behind the group. If Mac wasn't mistaken, there was a new coffee stain on the man's shirt that hadn't been there before.

Holy
crow, I hope he's better at catching crooks than he is at personal hygiene. Damn.

“Normandy?” the chief asked. “What's going on?”

“These assho—” Normandy stopped, scratched his balding head, and rephrased. “Their lawyers have requested they be allowed to consult with their clients in a room
other
than an interrogation room. You know, the cameras, the two-way glass…So, I'm taking them to conference room number two. And after they've had a little consult,” he sneered the word, “we'll continue the questioning. In an
interrogation
room.”

“Fine,” Washington said, his expression that of a man who'd just stepped in something sticky and smelly.

Normandy nodded, ushering the group toward an adjacent hallway. Then his gaze snagged on Eve's cousin. “Oh, and I'm glad you're here, Lieutenant Buchanan. I've got a couple of questions to ask you about your uncle and Blake Parish.”

“Sure thing.” Buchanan nodded, though his expression betrayed his distaste. Mac wondered how close the guy was to his uncle, and what
his
take on Edens was. The FBI investigator in Mac would
love
to poke around inside Buchanan's brain for a minute or two. “I'll be there in a sec,” Buchanan added, then turned back to Eve. “I think it's good you're getting out of town,” he told her.

Eve's lips trembled as she glanced up at her cousin. “You don't think I'm running away? You don't think I'm being a coward?”

“Hell no.” Buchanan pulled her in for another hug. Mac lifted a brow when Bill's jaw started to twitch. “I absolutely do not think either of those things. I think you're strong and tough and—”

“Lieutenant,” Normandy cut in after re-entering the bullpen. “Let's get going on those questions, huh? I'm working on a short clock here.”

“Yeah, sure.” Buchanan gestured him on before releasing Eve. Mac fought not to roll his eyes when Bill immediately snagged her by the shoulder and dragged her back, tucking her under his arm. “You better take care of her, Reichert,” Buchanan warned. “Or you'll have me to answer to.”

“I'll protect her with my life,” Bill vowed, lifting his chin.

Buchanan must've heard the crystal clear ring of truth in that statement—hard not to—because a look of relief…or maybe contentment was the better word, passed over his face. He jerked his head in a quick nod, then turned to zigzag his way through the desks and over to Normandy.

“Protect her with your life, huh?” Washington muttered, his dark brow furrowed. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

And for no reason Mac could explain, the phrase
famous
last
words
skittered through his mind like rancid, diseased leaves on a hot breeze. He shuddered…

Chicago Police Station, District 2, Second Floor, Interrogation Room #6

11:42 p.m…

They don't know. I played my cards just right. They
may have their suspicions, but they don't
know
. I was able to keep up the act around them, around her…

Her…the damned woman who was turning out to be impossible to kill. The damned woman who seemed to have nine lives. Who would've ever thought it? Certainly not him.

As he sat on the cold metal chair, staring at his reflection in the two-way glass on the opposite wall, he was careful to keep his expression shuttered. Careful to keep his face completely impassive as he mentally cursed those useless, moronic gangbangers straight to hell for botching what should've been an easy job.

And okay, fine. He realized
he'd
botched the first three attempts on her life, but that's only because his heart hadn't really been in it. He still
loved
her, damnit! Which made his failures understandable, perhaps even reasonable. But Christ! How hard was it for a couple of dickheads who—for shits and giggles—spent their weekends doing drive-bys to walk into a bar full of slow, fat bikers and put a bullet in the brain of one unarmed woman? Really? How hard was
that
?

Apparently too hard. And now not only did he have to deal with the fact that he was
still
at square one when it came to getting his hands on the money he needed, but there was also physical evidence left behind at the scene in the form of a blood sample—a blood sample that, when he stopped for a moment to think about it, was probably teeming with all manner of STDs; he knew the guy in question liked his crack as much as he liked his whores—that could eventually lead back to him…

No, no, no. I've been too smart. There's no way this will come back to bite me. I used a burner. I have alibis. And, besides, Devon Price won't let his man talk…

Devon Price. Just
thinking
the name of the leader of Chicago's biggest Southside gang, known as the Black Apostles, was enough to have the scotch he'd sipped earlier turning to bitter, burning acid in his stomach. And when he quietly and slowly blew out a breath, he could smell the anxiety and…
fear
—let's just call it what it was—coming up from deep inside him, from the pit of his somersaulting stomach.

He owed the man so much money.
Too
much money. Then again, the nice thing about being indebted to that snake-mean sonofabitch was that Devon needed him alive and out of jail in order to be able to cash in on the fat check he hoped to receive upon Eve's death. Which meant Devon would do what needed to be done to make sure the police didn't get anything on him.

For instance, he knew there'd be no hospital report of a man with buckshot in the leg, because the man with buckshot in his leg wouldn't be
going
to any hospital. In fact, the man with buckshot in his leg was currently being tended to by a veterinarian who made his bank by sewing up the bodies of Devon's gangland crew.

Bleh.
He shivered just thinking of lying on a cold, metal slab where a whole slew of filthy, furry critters had lain before him, having his open wounds poked and prodded at with instruments that were likely seeing their second, third, or
fourth
use. But whatever. The bumbling idiot's medical care, or lack thereof, wasn't his problem.
His
problem was whether or not the gangbanger's DNA profile was in the system.

But
if
it
is, it won't matter. It's not like Devon will let the man cut a deal even if he's inclined to, which, considering where the guy comes from, he's probably
not
.

One of the nice things about dealing with society's bottom-feeders was that, though they tended to have very few scruples, the one tenet they clung to more stubbornly than a cocklebur in a wool sock was the fact that they didn't rat. They didn't squeal. They kept their goddamned mouths shut at any and all costs, no matter what they were accused of or what sort of sentence was coming down on their heads. Because they knew that to do otherwise would compromise the integrity of the gang and ensure one thing and one thing only for themselves: a good ol' fashioned shanking in the shower after being ass-raped and beaten.

Okay. He blew out another sly, guarded breath. So, he was fine. He was covered. There was nothing to worry about on that front.

Which
means
now
all
I
have
to
contend
with
is
motive…

Shit.

And there was
that.
Then again, he could rest easy knowing he wasn't the only one with cause to want Eve dead…

So, I just need to continue to play it cool. Continue to cast doubt and continue to manipulate all the players around the board.

A smile threatened to curve his lips as he thought,
it's a good thing I've always been so good at chess.
But he knew any show of emotion other than concern would be viewed as suspect, so he folded his hands in his lap and looked up expectantly when the CPD detective threw open the door and schlepped his rumpled, hygiene-deficient self into the room…

***

Outside Red Delilah's Biker Bar

Monday, 12:56 a.m.

Delilah glanced at the yellow and black police tape crisscrossed over her front door and shuddered as she swung from the back of Mac's big, gnarly bike. Reaching up to tug the helmet from her head, her arms felt like they weighed two hundred pounds. And she realized someone, at some point, had thrown a handful of grit in her eyes, because the suckers burned like fire as she watched Mac toe out the kickstand and switch off the loudly growling engine.

Crime
scene…

Her beloved bar was a crime scene. The scene where her staunchest patron had been shot down in cold blood.

Cold
blood…

Why did people use that phrase? Blood wasn't cold. It was hot. Hot and slick and smelling of the iron-richness of life, and—

God, I'm exhausted. Exhausted and sad and—

She glanced at the taped-up doorway again, and her stomach did a series of flips like it was competing for a slot on the Olympic gymnastics team or something. She had to toss Mac the helmet so she could put her hands on her hips and bend at the waist, taking deep, gulping breaths of the dense city air lest she loose her cookies on the spot.

“Hey,” Mac reached forward to lay one of his big, broad hands on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Okay? “No, I don't think I am, I—”

She glanced up, and there it was again. All that glaring, yellow tape. A reminder that she'd
watched
as the last of Buzzard's life-giving blood seeped from his chest and puddled onto the floor and—

Holy shit, she didn't think she could stay here. Not tonight. Not when the memory of…
everything
was still so fresh. Too fresh. Too goddamned fresh to stay here and face it all…

Tomorrow
, she promised herself.
Tomorrow, if the police will let me, I'll start putting my business back together. Tomorrow, I'll look into contacting Buzzard's estranged sister to tell her he's dead.
Sweet Mary and Joseph,
dead.
She still couldn't quite believe it, except that the tears burning the back of her nose and the bile scalding the back of her throat told her it was true.
Tomorrow, I'll suck-it-up-buttercup and deal with what has to be dealt with.

But not tonight…

Tonight she just needed to be…
away
. And despite everything that Eve had suffered, despite what the woman was
still
dealing with, Delilah discovered she was green with envy. Because Eve was…
away
.

After they'd left the police station, she and Mac had waited at a nearby coffeehouse while Bill and Eve went to the BKI chopper shop on Goose Island to pack a couple of bags—and, yes, Delilah totally suspected they'd done it that way because neither Mac nor Bill wanted her going inside the place. Although, when she'd said as much to Mac while trying to choke down a cappuccino, he'd simply pointed a finger at his slightly crooked nose and sing-songed, “You see this? You can't read my p-p-p-poker face.”

Which truthfully, and despite a day that'd gone from perfect to puke, and despite the fact that she couldn't close her eyes without seeing Buzzard's last moments emblazoned on the backs of her lids, it'd made her laugh. To hear a big, burly guy like Mac quoting Lady Gaga in a slow, Texas twang was nothing short of hilarious. She figured he'd offered up the levity on purpose—God love him—in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere and brighten her black-on-black mood. And it'd worked. For all of about half a second. Then her laughter had died a quick death when he'd added, “Besides, you're completely wrong. We're waiting here because I thought you could use this time to gather your thoughts.”

Gather her thoughts?
Gather
her
thoughts?
Really? He thought she needed to
gather
her
thoughts
? That was the
last
thing she needed! In fact, what she needed then, what she needed now, was to
stop
thinking altogether. Just stop the sickening cascade of memories…And for a moment, after Bill and Eve had returned, and while she and Mac had followed them out to Belmont Harbor, and especially when Mac had…wait for it…helped Bill check the boat for bugs—and not the creepy/crawly kind, either; the black wands the men had waved over the entire vessel had been searching for the transmit-y/receive-y kind—she'd gotten her wish. For those few,
too
few blessed minutes, she'd completely forgotten about her own troubles. She'd been too busy watching the men flit around the boat like drain flies while simultaneously trying to swallow down the giant serving of bullshit, a.k.a.
we're nothing more than motorcycle mechanics who've seen the darker side of life
, that Mac'd served her earlier.

Sheesh. The man was obviously under the impression she'd fallen off the turnip truck only yesterday. Or else, he simply didn't care
what
she thought.

Then again, none of that mattered now because the point was she didn't
want
to be alone with her thoughts, she didn't
want
to stay here tonight, and she'd watched with an envious heart as Bill and Eve fired up the inboard engine on the sailboat. She barely resisted calling out “Take me with you!” as she stood on the softly rocking dock, the stars glinting overhead while the vessel motored out into the vast midnight blue of Lake Michigan. So, yup. She was jealous of Eve. Because she, too, wanted…no,
needed
to get away.

And then an idea washed over her so brightly, she actually tilted her head back to see if there was a light bulb shining above her. Nope. No light bulb. But an epiphany nonetheless.

“Let me stay with you tonight, Mac,” she blurted. When he blanched like she'd kicked his dog, she tried really hard, really, really,
really
hard not to let the expression get to her. And before he could open his mouth to reject her,
again
, she pushed ahead. “The cringe-factor here is just way too high. I could seriously use a few hours away.” And when he hesitated once more, she swallowed her pride and begged. Well, as much begging as her ego—her very well-adjusted and perfectly proportioned ego, thank you very much—would allow her. “Please,” she added.

He twisted up his lips, narrowing his eyes at her. And when he said, “Is there a mathematical way to calculate a cringe-factor that
isn't
too high?” she realized she was holding her breath.

Blowing it out in one exasperated puff, she said, “I'm serious, Mac. I don't want to stay here. And I don't care what you're trying to hide at the chopper shop. Really, I don't. My motto has always been
don't get other people's shit on my shoes
. So, my lips are sealed, whatever it is. I can promise you. My. Lips. Are. Sealed. I just want a warm bed somewhere
other
than the place one of my friends died. And I don't think I can stand to be alone in some hotel. Is that too much to ask?”

He had that stop-and-stare thing down pat. And as he sat there straddling his big, mean-looking motorcycle, regarding her so intently, she realized why it was she was so attracted to him. Forget about the muscles and the thick, dark hair, forget about the piercing blue eyes and the air of mystery. Because, to put it simply, all that stoicism, all that quiet, macho-man reticence was like a hit of cocaine for a woman like her. A hit of cocaine for a woman who knew that still waters ran deep.

Of course, he went and ruined it all, ruined all her softer feelings toward him, when he cocked his head and said, “Are you tryin' to pull my heart strings? Because I have to tell you, they're not really attached to anything. And I'm not gonna let you use the excuse of what you've been through today to try to finagle me into climbin' in bed with you.”

And, yes. That would be her jaw hanging down to her chest. She snapped it shut so hard her teeth clacked. Disappointment, then anger, had her lips thinning into a tight line, and all of her exhaustion disappeared in a flash. “That's
not
what I was doing,” she ground out, horrified when tears of humiliation and rejection burned at the back of her throat.

“No?” He lifted one infuriating brow.

“No,” she declared, her cheeks burning despite the soft puff of cool evening air that tried, without much success, to ruffle her tangled, matted hair. “I just wanted a friend. Do you know what that is, Mac? A friend?” Her upper lip curled. “As in, a person who's there for me when someone I care about dies?” And then, because she had the tendency to become petty and biting when she'd been intentionally and cruelly dissed—no, she wasn't proud of it, but neither could she seem to help it—she added, “Besides, I thought you were gay.”