Kiss Me Awake (12 page)

“Like what you see? I can introduce you.”

Spencer gave the fitness trainer a sidelong glance then held his hand out to stop the door from closing. “No thanks, Dave.” Spencer chuckled at the irony. He supposed his reaction could be mistaken for interest.

Dave nudged him in the ribs, a goofy smile spanning his narrow jaw. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. She just reminds me of someone I once knew.” There were some similarities. Enough to catch his eye and for a split second make him wonder, but it wasn’t Jaida. It never was.

Gina paged Dave, and the trainer headed for the lobby. Spencer stepped inside the elevator. An hour on the court should get his juices flowing and pull him out of this disabling funk.

The locker room was empty. He hung his gray suit on the hanger provided then changed into shorts and a tee shirt. He reached for a fresh can of Penn balls that were tucked in his bag and locked the rest of his belongings inside the locker.

He stood outside of court four where Gina had assigned him and studied the player through the glass, impressed when the man drove the rubber ball into the wall and without any effort, picked up the rebound.

It didn’t take her long to find him a partner. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. He must be new to the club or a member who had changed schedules.

He hung back a moment longer and watched, sizing up his game. Spencer was no lightweight, but given the man’s overly developed musculature, and his power-centered wield of the racquet, if the game could be won by brute strength, Spencer would be no competition for him. But fortunately skill was a necessary component, and he was semi-accomplished in that department.

He waited for the ball in play to fizzle out then opened the door and stepped inside. “How’s it going?”

His assigned partner turned and gave him a sweeping once over, a stick of gum working his jaw up and down. “Lance Palermo,” he said, offering his name and his gloved hand at the same time.

Spencer tucked the racquet under his arm and gripped the man’s hand. “Spencer Gordon.”

“Well, Spencer Gordon, let’s get to it.”

Palermo bounced a ball on the tight weave of his racquet strings. Sensing the man’s impatience, Spencer took his position and prepared to engage.

S
he was in so much trouble. Jaida’s hands shook as she dug
through the box of papers. Just papers. No tape. She shifted from her backside to her knees where she sat in the middle of the floor, her home office littered with emptied files, drawers, and boxes. Auggie was going to kill her.

“Don’t take evidence home. Make a copy.”
His instructions rang in her head like warning bells that came too late. How many times had he told her that? Too many times to count, that’s how many.

She picked up a stack of loose papers and stuffed them back inside the empty box then pivoted toward the desk, pulling out a lone shoebox shoved under the bottom drawer. She lifted the lid. There was nothing inside but old photographs.

This tape was the backbone of their case. The backup file stored in the agency computer had been deleted along with a few other files. But those files were of little importance. She had the original; had to take it because the copy that was burned to a disc had been missing for a couple of weeks. Now all three copies were gone.

Puzzled, she glanced at the bookshelf to her right. She left the video on that shelf right there, second down from the top. She was sure of it.

Where was that tape? She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Was she so thickskulled that she had to learn everything the hard way? Gale just might walk after all, and it was her fault.

“Leave me alone!” She yelled at the ringing cell phone then pushed herself up, her legs tingling with life where the blood had stanched. She darted for the kitchen counter where she’d left it, catching it on the last ring.

“Hello,” she said. Breathing, heavy and strained rattled through the airwaves. Was this a prank call?

“Hello?” she tried again, anger clipping her tone. No one answered. Her finger slid to the off button. She hesitated and second-guessing herself, brought the phone back to her ear. 

The connection crackled then cleared. “Detective Martin?”

Ray
. She never thought she’d feel this way, but the sound of his voice elated her. The timing couldn’t have been better. He was the only man who could get her out of this predicament. Not her first choice in heroic relief, but at this point, she would take what was offered.

“Are you ready to talk?” She blurted it out, baring her need, her desperation. Maybe it was for the best. She was tired of the games, the hoops she had to jump through. If it wasn’t his aim to deliver what he promised then she would rather know now.

“You sound eager, detective.”

“Yes, well, um, you do know and can appreciate that we’re in need of your assistance.” She stumbled over the words.

He laughed. “What’s with this ‘we’ bit? Tell it like it is.
You
need my assistance. You need
me
.” His voice went low and flat. “Now, let me hear you say that.”

Jaida caught her tongue between her teeth and held it before she said the wrong thing and ruined any chance she might have with this informant. Her grip tightened on the phone.
Just do it. Just tell him what he wants to hear.

Like sand, it was all slipping through her fingers. The months, the hours, the late nights; all of it a waste. She held her eyes closed long enough to draw in another breath and do what he asked. “I need you,” she said, the admission even more painful because it was true.

“Very good,” he taunted, his condescension raising her ire. He might flaunt his win, but as long as he came through for her, she would endure whatever he dished out.

He cleared his throat. “I just needed to...” The connection broke up leaving her with nothing but dead air.

“Don’t cut me off now! Hello. Hello. What about a meet?” She groaned and slammed the phone down on the counter. He was gone.

He just needed to what? Hear her say that she needed him? She was dealing with an unhinged man. An unhinged man who was holding all the cards and somehow he knew it. But how did he know?

He called her cell phone. How did he get her number? She didn’t give it out to just anyone and never to an informant. She was so relieved that he had called she hadn’t even considered…

The phone vibrated against the counter. He was calling back. Jaida answered, and this time she buried the enthusiasm under a formal tone. “Yes?”

“Where are you? I’ve been waiting for you.” It was Auggie, not Ray. She wouldn’t have picked up if she’d known.

“I’m on my way,” she said. She slipped her purse over her shoulder and grabbed the car keys. She had to tell him about the tape sometime. It may as well be now.

“Good. We need to push this meeting with Ray. Get him to talk and turn over the documents. I have a bad vibe that we’re losing this thing.”

It was more than a vibe, but now wasn’t the time to confirm his fears. Not over the phone.

“If he won’t cooperate, Jaida, we’re done. I’ve extended this long enough.”

“I just got off the phone with him,” she said.

“And…?”

“I lost the connection.” She opened the car door and paused before climbing inside. “He called my cell phone. You didn’t happen to give him my num—”

He cut her off. “Are you crazy? No way would I be that careless. I guard that with my life. Just like I guard you.”  

He’d done a better job with her than she’d done with the evidence. “Thanks, Auggie. See you in a few.”

When she arrived at the agency, he was gone. She hung up with him not twenty-five minutes ago. Why didn’t he wait for her?

She switched on her office light. Fluorescent tubes flickered behind the plastic ceiling sheets. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the center of her phone. She peeled it off.

Urgent call. Had to leave. I’ll catch you later.

Auggie.

She sank into the chair behind her desk. She’d missed him. It wasn’t as though she had a death wish, but she was prepared, her nerve built up along with her resistance to the verbal flogging that was surely coming, and perhaps her termination.

Maybe his absence was fate saving her hide. Maybe the tape would turn up and he would never have to know. She shook her head, a weak smile playing at her lips. That was just a little too Pollyanna.

Her desktop looked like a warzone. In a way she supposed it was. Good fighting evil, facts the weapons of warfare. She sifted through the debris of paperwork along with the evidentiary photos then collected the information she didn’t have at home and shoved it into an empty folder. Unwilling to make the same mistake twice, she flipped through the files and scanned the computer records to verify that what she was about to take home were duplicates.

She would finish what she’d started. Unless her luck changed, she would have to find something more incriminating in these documents, even if she had to fabricate it. She smiled at the tempting thought.

Files in hand, she locked her office door and hurried through the hall. Rounding the corner at a fast clip she ran smack into something hard enough to stop her in her tracks and knock her backward. 

The folder of papers clutched in her hand slid sideways, its contents spilling, fluttering to the earth one page, one picture at a time. Jaida teetered on her heels. Losing the battle for balance, her arms flew back, tensed and straight, prepared to hit the tile, but large hands grabbed her, sparing her backside from making a painful connection with the floor.

“Slow down. What’s the hurry?” She looked up at the amused chuckle and saw that Lance was the wall she’d run into. He pulled her upright.

Jaida wriggled one hand loose and adjusted the shoe that had slipped from her heel. “Where did you come from?”

“Me? You were the one flying around that corner like a bat out of hell.”

He bent down and rounded up the scattered documents then shuffled the skewed pile until they were all uniformly stacked. The folder was lying open wide and face down. He picked it up and slid everything inside then handed it to her with a slight bow.

“Thanks,” she said. At least he had contained the fallout.

“Nice save.” Grace from the coffee shop passed by carrying a cardboard holder filled with steaming coffees. Her broad grin lifted the corners of her eyes. “Is that how you do it, Jaida? Get all the men, I mean?”

Not quite feeling it, Jaida smiled back. “Only the ones who are hard to catch.”

Grace winked. “I think you already have this one eating out of the palm of your hand.” She gave Lance an appreciative look. “Wish I could say the same.”

When Grace moved on, he said, “You do, you know. Have me eating out of the palm of your hand.”

Not wanting to go there, she let his remark slide without commenting and crossed the hall to retrieve a stray sheet he’d missed. She glimpsed the date at the top of the memo. Her brow tightening, she looked up at Lance.

“What’s the date today?” she asked.

“The 16th.”

Innocuous, it was only a date. So why did she feel like this, flashes of hot then cold and a churning in her stomach? Maybe she was getting sick.

She turned, her feet struggling to keep up with her desire to escape. Lance caught up to her and grabbed her elbow. “So, what’s the big hurry? I thought you just got here.”

“I can do what I need to from home. And I want to stop and get a quick bite to eat.”

She hadn’t thought it through, just reacted. She hadn’t been back there in years, but she wanted to go there now.

“Sounds great. I’m loaded.” He draped his arm over her shoulders. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

S
eclusion was good. Lance took a bite of his burger and gazed up at the steel-framed arch overhead. It was painted green. Two-toned roses of fuchsia and white grew in a tangled vine over the top.  

The bench he shared with Jaida was a hard marble slab, their grease-stained sack of f
ood the only thing between them. That and a few lies. He licked a drip of mayonnaise from his finger and frowned. He would have splurged on her. He was thinking along the lines of the infamous Mr. Stox, not fast food, but he’d given her the choice. 

Where the cuisine was a bust, the atmosphere of the botanical gardens they picnicked in made up for it. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but it worked.

He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, watching her dainty fingers twirl a greasy French fry in a blob of ketchup she’d wrung from the small foil packet. She brought it to her mouth and bit off the saturated end.

“Good food?” he asked. Considering what he had just packed in his belly, that was an oxymoron.