In Safe Keeping (21 page)

She moved away, needing to put some distance between them. She couldn’t think straight with him so close. ‘You make me crazy Evan. You make me feel — things I’ve never felt before.’

He followed, so close up behind her she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, the brush of his fingertips tracing her collarbone. ‘Not even when you were married?’

Laila turned, and in that one unguarded moment, caught a deep longing in his eyes. He needed her to say the words.

She reached up and cradled his face in her hands. ‘Not even when I was married.’

He nodded, and then the moment was gone. Evan Barclay wasn’t a man to gloat, and he wasn’t one to make her feel guilty.

He turned and pressed a kiss to her palm. ‘So, is it a good kind of crazy?’

Laila smiled. ‘That’s not the most articulate question I’ve heard you ask, Mr Barclay, but yes, it’s the absolute best kind of crazy.’

1:50 p.m. Friday

The best vantage point for Evan to lay in wait was Laila’s bedroom. Located off the central hallway, it was positioned half way between the living room in front and the kitchen out back. It had an ensuite bathroom he could use too, which saved him from moving through the house.

For the umpteenth time, he questioned the logic of sitting on her bedroom floor, questioned the sense behind his decision to lay in wait should her attacker return.

Would the military use someone like John Holt, a bikie, a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang that operated outside the law?

He didn’t think so.

Would the Peytons?

He prayed not.

Tired of going round in circles, Evan shifted his thoughts to the second guy, the one who’d saved Laila.

Pulling his phone out from under her pillow, he stared at the photograph Luke had sent through. It showed a tall, thin soldier heading into an office block shortly after Luke had spoken to Commander Reuben Lawrence. Not long afterwards, Luke had reported the soldier had left Holsworthy Barracks.

Luke had lost him somewhere in the traffic heading back into the city.

Evan stared at the photograph. It fitted Laila’s description of a tall, lanky guy, though his hair was obscured by a cap.

Dickson Cross had thought the man in the park might be a local, a passer-by, with reasons of his own for not coming forward. But what if the second man was this guy? Military?

Back propped against the side of Laila’s bed, Evan checked his watch. Five minutes off the hour. Time to text Laila again.

He punched out a quick message.
Everything quiet here. Don’t worry. Evan x.

Next time he checked in, he’d send the photo through, see if she recognised the guy.

He returned the phone to its hiding place then pulled himself to his feet, stretching his cramped body and glancing at the cream cover on the bed where they’d spent most of their time. Looking back, he wished he’d stayed longer on those occasions, held her longer. But he hadn’t known what was expected. She still wore her wedding rings, and he wanted to give her time to get used to a man being around the house again.

Evan dropped to the floor and smashed through twenty quick push-ups. When he straightened, his heart beat faster, his mind sharpened by the oxygen. So far, there’d been no word from Cross on John Holt’s whereabouts, but if the bikie planned on coming here, Evan had every intention of making sure the man lived to regret it.

He was squatting, pulling a granola bar from the small pack he’d brought with him, when the ceiling creaked. It was long, slow and deliberate, as if it was protesting under a weight.

Evan froze, knees objecting, adrenaline kickstarting his heart into a heavy, rapid pulse. He waited, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror on Laila’s wall, unwilling to move in case the sound came again.

Five seconds later, he heard it. Another creak.

Careful. Calculated.

He straightened up, ears straining to hear over the crashing in his temples.

Another creak. Another cautious step.

Evan didn’t know what he’d been expecting — a window sliding open, the back door forced, maybe a knock at the door.

But never this.

He looked up and scanned the ornate ceiling. No manhole.

Where was it?

Treading quietly, he stuck his head into the ensuite bathroom.

No access there.

He ducked back into the bedroom. If he moved around too much, he’d alert the intruder to his presence.

With the layout of the house in mind, Evan pushed the door nearly all the way closed. Gripping the doorknob, he pressed his eye to the opening and held the heavy wooden door in place. Regardless of where the guy came down, he’d have to come through the hallway. With the rest of the house empty, he’d come in here, looking for Laila.

Armed with nothing but his fury, Evan waited, a plan taking shape in his head. When the person stepped into the bedroom, one massive hit with the door should knock him back a step or two. His fist would do the rest.

There was a soft scraping sound, then silence.

The cover being shifted.

Evan waited, body beaded with sweat, knowing his adversary was doing the same.

What was he thinking, planning? Was he lying in wait up there, watching until Laila took a shower or maybe a nap, before he made his move to hurt her? Would he wait up there until she came home?

Images flashed in his mind. Cowards he’d fought off three at a time before they beat the shit out of Duncan. The sergeant major, standing over him, determined to physically break the student cadet, the football star he thought needed cutting down to size.

Sadistic bastard!

Evan harnessed the emotion the memories aroused, a seething hostility building inside him.

One minute passed.

Three.

Ten.

He heard a muted sound as something dropped.

A movement of air. A rustle of clothing.

He was here!

2:03 p.m. Saturday

Laila sat at the kitchen bench, reading the small excerpt from the morning paper.

A woman was attacked last night in Bronte Park in Sydney’s eastern suburbs. Anyone who may have witnessed the attack, or noticed a man loitering in the area around 7 p.m., is encouraged to come forward. If the man is sighted, please do not approach him as he is armed and dangerous. Contact Sydney Police…

There was a telephone number but, thankfully, no names.

While John Holt was the main suspect, and a person the police were desperate to interview, Laila couldn’t be one hundred percent certain it was him. Last night, at the police station, Dickson said that if Holt came forward he’d put him in a line-up and see if she could identify him.

Taking her coffee with her, Laila slid off the chrome stool and wandered out to the veranda, smiling as she ran her hand over the treadmill. Last night had been a revelation, and she wished with all her heart Evan was here with her now. But she understood he wasn’t the kind of guy to do nothing in a crisis, especially when Luke Neilson was giving up part of his long weekend to scout around the military base. If Evan felt more useful keeping watch at her place, then she’d just have to occupy herself as best she could.

She was looking at his trophy cabinet when her mobile rang. It was Dickson Cross. He too was working over the long weekend.

Laila swiped her thumb across the screen. ‘Hello detective?’

‘Afternoon. How are you?’

‘All good thanks.’ Despite the fact that someone had tried to kill her last night, she was the happiest she’d been in four years. Maybe longer. But she didn’t want to go there.

‘I just had a call from the tech guy. The directories on Mike’s computer were copied. And your phone was bugged.’

Laila sat down on Evan’s bench press.

‘It was a sophisticated line splitter system, in a position that was hard to detect.’

Laila closed her eyes for a few seconds and slid her fingers into her hair. ‘Could they do all that in forty-five minutes?’

‘A pro could do it in ten, and they’d still have half an hour to look through the filing cabinets.’

‘How do we find out who bugged it?’

‘It’s virtually impossible. Some systems use radio frequencies, some frequencies are set aside for the military. One thing’s for certain — they’re illegal.’

Laila raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s just…nuts.’

‘It’s very worrying. Someone is extremely interested in what’s going on in your office. They didn’t go to all that trouble for nothing.’

There was a few moments silence, and then Dickson spoke again. ‘I asked you this the other day, but, leaving the military matter aside, are there any cases where the parties involved might be pushed to extremes?’

The Peytons?

All this had started after she’d accepted the Peyton case.

‘I’ve got a huge divorce on the go. There’s a dispute over the assets.’

She heard Dickson blow out a breath. ‘What kind of money are we talking?’

‘Big.’

‘Has this been in the media recently?’

The detective was digging, but Laila had said all she was prepared to say.

She changed the subject. ‘Any news tracking down John Holt?’

‘Not yet. There are two officers watching his house. When he comes home, we’ll be waiting, though with the head knock you described, he could still be in Disneyland.’

‘Are you checking the hospitals?’

‘As we speak.’

When she didn’t say any more, Dickson went on. ‘I want the techie to take a look at your home phone. Am I able to call by and pick up a key?’

‘Evan’s over there now.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Why?’

Laila rolled her eyes and shook her head. He’d find out soon enough. ‘He’s keeping watch.’

‘Keeping
watch?
On what, exactly?’

‘He has a theory the guy might try again before Monday.’

This time the silence was deafening.

‘I’m not happy about it either, detective, and not because I feel unsafe. I have a security guard stationed outside.’

‘I wasn’t thinking that. Barclay wouldn’t take any chances with you. But he can’t be playing the hero, or interfering with a police investigation.’

Laila bristled, her natural instinct to jump to Evan’s defence. ‘Pardon me detective, but hanging out at my place on the Saturday of a long weekend could hardly be deemed interfering with a police investigation.’

‘Which security firm do you have?’

Laila frowned at the quick change of subject. ‘Neilson’s.’

‘I’ve met Luke a couple of times.’ There was a note of approval in Dickson’s voice. ‘He’s a good operator.’

Thank goodness he was happy about something.

‘Righto, I’ll let Evan know I’ll be dropping by in the next hour or so. Be in touch.’

He rang off and Laila went into the living room, keeping her phone in her hand. Hopefully, Dickson might convince Evan to abandon his vigil, and come home.

Catching sight of the suit coat that had lain forgotten on the lounge, Laila picked it up, lifted the plastic and buried her nose in the fine woollen material. The smoky smell was gone, and only the natural aroma of the expensive cloth remained.

Laila sighed and looked around the apartment. He’d told her to make herself comfortable and use anything she wanted, but she was loath to go poking around. It just felt wrong. Maybe she could kill an hour having a bath and then make lunch. After that, there was probably a movie she could watch.

She stared at the heap of clothes on the lounge and couldn’t help smiling. Sophisticated as it was, Evan’s apartment was a bit of a man cave. Who knew the well-turned-out lawyer, capable of making her heart race every time he walked into the room, was messy in his personal space.

Thinking she could at least put the coat away and straighten the bathroom after using it, Laila climbed the stairs and walked into Evan’s walk-in robe. On one side were ties, belts, socks and shoes, on the other, the clothes were separated into formal and casual. Sports shirts, T-shirts, jeans and casual jackets took up one section, suits, trousers and sports jackets the other.

And there, hanging in the middle of a line of suits, was an empty Hugo Boss cover, its zipper opened to the bottom.

Laila checked the label on the coat she was holding.

Hugo Boss.

This had to be the one. The trousers were missing too. Evan had probably dropped them off for cleaning as well.

She lifted off the plastic and cast it aside, unpinned the docket from the lapel and slid the jacket inside the cover. She zipped it up then stood on tiptoe to hang the coat between the others.

Gathering up the plastic, she looked around for a bin, then remembered there was one beside the desk in the bedroom.

She was stuffing the plastic into the bin when a second sheet of paper slid out from behind the docket in her hand. It was a note, written on expensive notepaper. The drycleaner had pinned it onto the lapel so it wouldn’t be missed. It was standard practice. He’d done the same for her once or twice when she’d left things in her pocket.

Frowning, Laila straightened up. There was something familiar about the handwriting.

Thank you for your recommendation Evan. I’m pleased with her representation so far. S.

Laila took a gasp of breath, heart in denial even as her mind registered that once again her life had changed in a split second.

‘S’ was for Scarlett. Laila recognised the handwriting from the affidavits she’d signed.

Thank you for your recommendation?

Gripping the back of the chair, Laila stared at the note in disbelief, clinging to the ruins of her newfound happiness even as they turned to dust.

This note was about
her
.

Skin cold and clammy, she struggled to sort her thoughts into some kind of order. She clearly remembered Scarlett saying a friend had referred her to the practice, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that
friend
would be Evan.

Laila continued staring hard at the note, which now shook in her hand. Why hadn’t he referred Scarlett somewhere else? Why had he deliberately created a conflict of interest between them? Did he think she wouldn’t go as hard in the case, with him on the other side? Or had he recommended her, hoping to gain inside knowledge he could use for Duncan Peyton’s benefit?