False Security (12 page)

Kansas was flat,
much more so than Paul Pettis expected. He was skeptical when he first heard he
had to come here, but now that he was here, he thought he could learn to like
it.

He tossed the nine millimeter
gun to the ground and looked at the endless field ahead of him. He couldn’t see
even a hill to obstruct his view under the darkening pink and blue hues of the
sunset clouds. He thought if he looked hard enough, he might see the Rocky
Mountains.

“I hate this place,” Sean said,
interrupting Paul’s serenity. “Too hot and humid.”

As soon as they stepped off the
jet a few hours earlier, Paul’s suffering under the summer humidity began. An
invisible force field holding back much needed rain from providing the ground
with moisture, the humidity seemed to raise the temperature by at least twenty
degrees. Sweat penetrated Paul’s jeans and black t-shirt, both of which stuck
to him like a second skin.

Even though Paul agreed with
Sean about the heat, he wanted nothing in common with the man, not even a small
point like their disdain for Kansas humidity. He took a deep breath to cleanse
as much hatred from his tone as he could. “Do you think I care if you like
Kansas? I’m sure the natives will be cheering when you leave. They might even
have a parade.”

Sean scowled. “Don’t be a jerk
because you’re in a bad mood about the girl.”

Paul clenched his fists and
released them as he blew out the breath he was holding.

“I have to get out of here,”
Sean said. He scratched the skin around his dark moustache. “He’s waiting for me.”

Paul closed his eyes. “You do
that,” he said under his breath.

“You’re supposed to stay here
and clean up. Someone will be here soon to help you finish up and take you back
to the jet.”

As if Paul didn’t already know
that. Sean’s authoritative tone was a slap in the face, but Paul wasn’t in
charge anymore. All of his tenure disappeared the moment they stepped foot on
the Kansas plains. He would be nothing more than a grunt until things calmed
down. No one wanted him to interfere with the job at this stage.

“Sean, please don’t hurt her,”
Paul said. “I know that’s asking a lot, but please don’t.”

Sean pursed his lips and
shrugged. “That’s not really up to me, is it? At least she’ll be alive still.
The guy is a different story. We both know he probably won’t make it through
the night.”

Paul looked down. Sean’s words
were true, but he didn’t want to consider them. Rachel had finally found
herself, her real self, and it would soon be taken away.

Sean’s footsteps moved away from
him and toward the car. Paul reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out
another gun. He lifted the barrel of the gun and aimed, his finger on the
trigger, his left eye shut. He had a clear shot of Sean’s overinflated head.
All he had to do was squeeze.

His shoulders dropped, and he
holstered the gun. He wouldn’t kill Sean today, he thought. Soon, but not
today. There were too many other things to deal with rather than getting rid of
Sean’s body and trying to explain how Sean ended up dead.

Paul turned around and looked
down at the task at hand. Flies swarmed around Officer Shelly Duncan’s open
eyes and slack jaw, but it did not bother Paul. He just wished she’d had the
courtesy to shut her eyes right before he shot her.

At least she had died quick. No
begging, no whimpering. A single shot in the back of her head and she fell.
Sean would fall as well, but in the end, he would plead for death. Maybe Paul
would shoot him in the stomach and let him bleed out. Or shoot him in the
kneecaps and let him live. The only time he saw someone shot in the kneecaps,
it had been a pleasure to watch him suffer. Sean needed that kind of agony in
his life to knock him back a few notches.

A throaty chuckle escaped Paul’s
lips and he picked up the shovel by his feet. It was time to stop dreaming
about ending Sean’s pathetic life. He had work to do if he was going to get
back to the jet on time. All the loose ends had been tied up with Duncan’s
death, and he was left to dispose of the body.

Unable to focus
on the paperwork he promised Greg he would get done, Mark paced the floor of
his office. Sarah had come back to the office a few minutes earlier, and
concern crossed her face when she noticed his restless movements. He stopped
pacing when he saw her, not wanting his mood to reflect in his actions.

He answered her quick question
and, as soon as she left his view, he resumed shuffling back and forth along
the tiles. He knew he should send her home given the slow business so near
closing time, but he desired solitude instead of dealing with the occasional
customer.

Mark glanced at his watch. He
had forty-five minutes until he was supposed to meet Rachel at her house. Her
phone call an hour earlier stirred up endless questions. With a controlled
voice, she had asked Mark if he minded staying at her house in lieu of going
out.

It wouldn’t have been an
alarming request, except the events of that morning kept coming to mind. Though
he wasn’t much in the mood for being in public, he sensed the real reason for
the change in plans. Rachel wanted to talk, and the prospect of hearing what
she had to say filled him with dread.

One question floated through his
mind since driving her home that morning, and his imagination took liberties
with the answer. What kind of woman spent her days volunteering at a battered
women’s shelter? The answer came too easily: the kind of woman who was abused.

When the realization struck him
that she might have been a victim of abuse at one time, his first thoughts were
of a superficial relationship. A boyfriend or even husband who did the
occasional Jekyll-to-Hyde transformation and took a bad day at work out on her.
But the simple explanation lacked something, though Mark couldn’t fathom what.
It also didn’t account for the scars on her back or help him understand the
cause of them.

He knew what happened to her,
but he didn’t want to admit it. The thought was too horrific. No matter how he
tried to spin it, no matter what other ideas he came up with, he always came
back to the same cause. Only one thing could be responsible for the angry scars
that marred her back. Multiple, random wounds cast on her skin in different
directions. Straight, yet overlapping. Thin, but varying in length. Oh, yes. He
knew.

He pushed the image of her scars
out of his mind as hard as he could and slammed the door against it. He didn’t
know anything for sure, and he wouldn’t allow himself to play agonizing
guessing games. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him tonight.

Instead, he focused on her
nonexistent foster family. She had no contact with them, and she purposely
avoided talking about them. He didn’t know their names or if they had other
children living with them besides Rachel.

Abuse as a child would explain
her reluctance to talk about them. It also explained why she went to a gym as a
child, finding solace in sparring with others and learning how to defend
herself. But like with so many other explanations, something didn’t feel right
about that one, either.

The bell rang through the store
to announce a customer, disturbing Mark’s train of thought. He stepped out of
the office and frowned at James jogging up the center aisle.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “There
had better be something wrong for you to run in here like that,” he said.

James walked past him. “You’re
going to need to sit down for this one,” he said.

Mark frowned and followed him
into the office. Sitting behind his desk, he asked, “What is it?”

James pulled up a chair to the
other side of the desk and sat down across from Mark. “Remember that guy that
got killed?”

“Lots of guys get killed.”

“The one that they were talking
about on the news last night, the friend of Senator Cal Robbins. We couldn’t
figure out his name, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mark said. “What
about him?” He had put the news report out of his mind in the wake of the
amazing night he spent with Rachel, and then seeing her scars that morning.

“I found out his name and raced
over here to tell you,” James said, excitement resounding through his voice.

Mark waited for a moment, but
James didn’t speak. “Are you going to tell me or are we playing twenty
questions?”

“Jonathan Thomas.”

Mark caught his breath at the
unexpected name. Chills rushed through him as he recalled the desk organizer
falling off the desk before the newscaster finished speaking the deceased man’s
name. It was quite a distraction to clean up the mess on the floor instead of
listening to the rest of the news story about his murder. Would Rachel knock it
off the desk on purpose? She would if she had a secret she wanted to hide, and
considering everything else, it seemed she had a lot to hide.

Jonathan Thomas.

Rachel Thomas.

“He has the same last name as
Rachel,” James said.

“I realize that,” Mark said. “It
doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does if Rachel pushed the
organizer off your desk before the newscaster said his name,” James said, as if
he had read Mark’s thoughts about Rachel’s suspicious actions. “That thing was
nowhere near the edge of your desk like she said. I know because I stole a pen
from you when I came in the office.”

“Why would she do that?” Mark
asked, his voice almost a whisper. He tried to wrap his mind around the
revelation. “That doesn’t make sense.”

James scooted to the edge of the
chair and put his elbows on the desk. “What if she didn’t want us to hear his
name?”

“But that doesn’t make sense,”
Mark repeated. “What’s the big deal about her having the same last name as some
guy that was murdered? Thomas is a common last name.”

“What if she’s related to him?
What if she knows something about his murder?”

“There’s no way she’s related to
him. She’s an orphan, remember? And I doubt she knows anything about his death
just because they have the same last name. That’s a stretch under any
circumstance.”

“They’re both from California,”
James said, unwilling to give up.

“A lot of people in California
have the same last name.”

“But when did she leave
California?”

Mark searched his memory. “I
think she said she moved away three years ago.”

“And Jonathan Thomas was
murdered three years ago yesterday,” James said. “That’s a little coincidental
given that they share the same last name.”

“People move away from
California every day. Nothing you’ve said means that she knew him, or knows
anything about his murder.”

“But there’s also too much
coincidence
not
to mean something. You have to admit something about her
isn’t right. I know you’ve noticed it. Greg said you were talking to him about
it yesterday morning.”

Mark frowned at hearing his
brother had broken his confidence. “Sure, she’s a little secretive, but I think
maybe something happened with her foster family and she doesn’t want to talk
about it. There’s nothing wrong with that, and we can’t go around accusing her
of anything. I don’t even like that we’re having this conversation without her
present to defend herself.”

James bounced in the chair like
a child, his eyes jumping with excitement. “Wouldn’t that be crazy if your
girlfriend knew something about a billionaire’s unsolved murder?” he asked, as
if he heard none of Mark’s words.

“It’s a coincidence, James,
nothing more.”

“Maybe.” He leaned forward and
grinned. “But wouldn’t it be cool?”

“I don’t see anything ‘cool’
about the idea.”

“What if she witnessed his
murder and now she’s running for her life because the killer is after her?”

“This isn’t James Bond or some
spy flick.”

“You know what I think?” James
asked, pointing a finger at him. “I think you need to wise up. Don’t call her
anymore, and don’t go see her. Disappear from her life. Guys do that all the
time.”

The thought had never crossed
Mark’s mind. “Why would you say that? I would never do that to her.”

“Yeah, but if she’s messed up in
the murder of Jonathan Thomas, you don’t want to get wasted by some mafia-type
guy because of her.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I mean Rachel’s cute, but she
ain’t
that
cute.”

Mark stood up and set his palms
down on the desk. “James, I’m in love with her. I’m not going to disappear
because you come in here with some wild theory that Rachel may know who killed
Jonathan Thomas.”

James also rose from his chair.
“Hey, that’s great, man. I’m happy for you and all, even though I think you’re
crazy for sticking around when you don’t know what she might be mixed up in or
who may be after her.”

“Thank you. Now will you leave
the matter—”

“But I think I’m going to figure
this out for myself.” He shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.” He walked out of the
office.

Mark groaned and chased James
down an aisle. “Where are you going?”

“To learn about Jonathan
Thomas.” He turned around and spread his arms. “You do own a bookstore.”

Mark caught up with him. “Fine,”
he said. “But at least let me do the research with you, okay? She is
my
girlfriend.” He led the way to the true crime section of the store. He ran a
finger over the spines of the books until he found one that caught his eye, a
biography authorized by the Thomas family on the life and murder of Jonathan
Thomas. Holding up the book, he asked, “How’s this one?”

James grabbed a second copy off
the shelf. “Works for me.”

Mark detoured to the cash
register and asked Sarah not to disturb him unless it was an emergency. He went
back to the office and settled into his chair. James had his book open on the
desk, already lost in the world of Jonathan Thomas. Mark opened his book and
skimmed through the details as fast as he could.

Jonathan Thomas had lived an
impoverished childhood in the outskirts of San Francisco. His mother died from
complications after giving birth to her youngest son, who also passed away.
Jonathan, the second oldest, was left to help raise the younger three siblings
with his older sister, while his father moved from job to job in search of good
pay and steady work.

After graduating from high
school, Jonathan skipped out on college to find a job and help support his
siblings. He found employment with a local security company that hired out
security guards to area banks. He worked his way from a clerical assistant to
vice president in seven years.

At twenty-five, unable to
convince the president of the security company to explore other areas of the
security industry, Jonathan ventured out on his own and opened Thomas Security.
He specialized in hiring out security guards and bodyguards, and built a
clientele that surpassed his previous employer’s. Jonathan then branched out
his company to commercial and residential security, including the installation,
servicing, and monitoring of alarms systems.

Jonathan succeeded beyond his
wildest expectations. At the time of his death, his security company was one of
the largest in the nation, second only to another company owned by a man named
Donovan King. The author spent a chapter detailing the well-known and explosive
rivalry between the two men, who were complete opposites.

Whereas Jonathan built his
company from the ground up, Donovan inherited his father’s already successful
security company. Jonathan loved the media and had no aversion to interviews or
photographs. Donovan, on the other hand, remained private and elusive, and the
press soon found him uninteresting, though the occasional desperate journalist
would find a reason to write an article about him.

Mark’s own interest waned and he
closed the book. Looking up at James, he said, “This is stupid. I mean, he
seems like an upstanding guy and I’m sorry he was murdered, but there’s nothing
here screaming out that Rachel knew him.”

“You might want to turn to page
three fifty-six.”

“How did you get to page three
fifty-six already?”

“I started reading from the
back. If you’re going to solve a mystery, always start at the end of the story,
closest to the time they died. Everyone knows that.”

Mark rolled his eyes at the
sudden spurt of wisdom. He flipped through the book. Halfway down the page, he
found what James was talking about. Jonathan was considered one of the nation’s
most eligible bachelors and family members reported he was a target for many
single women looking for quick wealth in the form of a man. His younger
brother, Cory, disclosed in an interview with the author that Jonathan avoided
serious relationships.

A week prior to his murder,
however, Jonathan made reference to a younger woman who captured his attention,
commenting it was the one woman who was untouchable even for him. Jonathan
never revealed the name of the woman, and all attempts to learn her identity
after his murder were fruitless.

Mark paused in his reading. At
his death three years ago, Jonathan was forty-three years old. Rachel would
have been twenty-three at the time, which passed for a younger woman.

“I guess you read it,” James
said.

“It’s nothing but another
coincidence.”

“They have the same last name,
she moved away from California at the same time he was murdered,
and
he was messing around with a
younger woman. That’s a lot of coincidence.”

“If Rachel was this mysterious
woman, she wouldn’t share his last name unless they had been married. The book
says Jonathan was never married. And how in the world would she meet this guy?
It says right there he avoided serious relationships because of gold diggers.
If I was him and had that much money, I’d also be wary of women.”

James set the book down on the
desk. “Okay. That must mean she’s related to him and she lied about having no
family.”