Last Light (3 page)

Not the same as believing in Michael’s innocence. And not promising any future relationship with the man who’d given David half his DNA.

Maria nodded. It was enough. “Thank you, David. I know you always keep your promises.” She sucked in the oxygen. Her gaze drifted toward the window with its view of the endless Texas sky. “I’d hoped to see him. One last time. But...”

David choked back a sob, wishing he could promise her that, anything to bring comfort to the woman who had sacrificed so much for her son and the worthless man who’d fathered him.

“I know, Mom.” He patted the air above her hand, not wanting to cause her any pain with his touch, his words as empty as the gesture. “It’ll be all right.”

She closed her eyes, eased into her drug-induced twilight sleep, her features at peace, accepting her son’s lie.

LUCY GUARDINO LOVED
everything about being a woman. In fact, her favorite photo of herself was taken when she’d been requalifying on the FBI weapons range, firing a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun while eight months pregnant, grinning like a madwoman.

As she slid her new Beretta M9A1 into the paddle holster on her waist and glanced in the mirror to check that it wasn’t too obvious beneath her blazer, her gaze went to the rumpled bed where her husband, Nick, had just this morning reminded her of the many, many pleasurable advantages her gender provided. Oh yes, Lucy loved everything about her life, about being a wife, a mother, a woman...except...

Shoes. She pulled her dark curls back from her face and glanced down at her sock-clad feet peeking out from beneath the hems of her slacks, the white plastic ankle-foot-orthotic brace glaring against the hardwood floor. It’d been four months since she’d almost lost her leg after being mauled by a vicious dog. The surgeons said it was a miracle she could walk again, much less mostly without need of a cane. But the nerve damage—there was no easy cure for that. She’d always need the brace, would always be in pain.

Always have to find damn shoes. During her medical leave, she’d worn sneakers while rehabbing, but today was the first day of her new job, leaving the FBI for a consulting firm that worked cold cases. An office job—she refused to think of it as desk duty—with a team to manage, people to meet and greet, an image to project.

Sneakers were not going to cut it. Neither were her almost-as-comfortable hiking boots.

She’d dressed in her best testify-in-court suit but had forgotten she usually wore low-heeled pumps with it—shoes she couldn’t fit her AFO brace into.

Lucy opened the closet door and was greeted by a host of Nick’s button-down shirts, slacks, and his handful of suits—seldom worn now that he’d set up his own practice as a trauma counselor and wore jeans most days. Even so, his side was much more colorful than hers—and more crowded. All she had were four conservatively cut pantsuits like the one she wore, a dozen blouses in various shades of white and off-white, and a few lonely date-night dresses she hadn’t worn in she couldn’t remember how long.

She pushed the suits aside and found what she was searching for: her black tactical boots. Perfect. Comfortable, the AFO would fit, no problem, and while they’d be a bit clunky—

“Mom, no,” Megan said from the door behind her. Her tone held all the outrage of a fourteen-year-old fashionista witnessing a crime against style. “Drop the boots and back away from the closet.”

“I need to wear something—” Lucy protested, holding on to the boots. Last time she’d worn them, she’d been with the Pittsburgh FBI SWAT team, roping out of a helicopter during an urban combat training exercise. Such fun.

The stab of fire from her left foot reminded her that those days were gone forever.

“So, is this Beacon Group an accounting firm?” Megan asked, scrutinizing Lucy’s black pantsuit. “Or is this new job of yours as an undertaker?”

“It’s my first day. I’m not sure what the dress code is.” And she wanted to make a good impression.

Until now the Beacon Group had functioned as an information clearing house, coordinating efforts of law enforcement agencies, nonprofits like the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and a myriad of volunteer-run groups. After being inundated with requests for investigatory assistance—not uncommon in these days of budget cuts and refocusing of priorities on domestic terrorism and violent crimes—Valencia Frazier, the owner, decided to establish a field investigation team as a pilot program.

Led by Lucy. No badge, no arrest authority, no resources. Yet, she was supposed to build a team that could crack cases years—decades even—gone cold, often without access to the original evidence or witnesses, with only case reports and photographic documentation. Sometimes not even that.

Putting together puzzles with no idea what the picture on the box was, with missing pieces as well as pieces from other puzzles jumbled into the mix.

Almost as much fun as roping out of a helo in Lucy’s mind.

“What’s their sense of style like?” Megan asked, taking the tactical boots from Lucy.

Lucy had run a background check on Valencia Frazier and her organization, knew their annual budget and closure rates, but the report hadn’t mentioned anything about a “sense of style.”

“How are their offices decorated?” Megan translated. “What did the people you met there wear?”

“The offices are in a Queen Anne house that’s over a hundred years old. Valencia’s family—the Fraziers—were among the original settlers at Beacon Falls.”

“So old and stuffy, uptight?” Megan grimaced. “Maybe undertaker does fit.”

“No. Valencia’s not like that. She’s—” Lucy hesitated. “Elegant. Understated. Audrey Hepburn—but in her fifties.”

“Audrey Hepburn would never be caught dead in a pantsuit. Let’s start with losing the blazer.” Before Lucy could protest, Megan slid it off her shoulders.

“I’m not leaving my weapon behind.” As a former federal agent, Lucy was able to continue to carry her guns—usually she had at least two on her person and one in her bag. She’d given up her ankle holster and switched her body gun to the sleeker Beretta instead of the .40 caliber Glock the FBI had issued, but no way in hell was she walking around naked.

Megan stepped back. “No. Keep the gun. That’s your style—badass, kick-butt detective. Like those black-and-white movies you and Dad love so much. In fact, a shoulder holster would be sexy.”

“And totally impractical.”

“Just saying. Wait, I have an idea.” She disappeared, heading down the hall to her room.

Lucy glanced in the mirror. She was thirty-nine, would be forty in a few months, and her teenaged daughter was dressing her. But, she had to admit, the blouse and slacks without the jacket did kind of work. She wore no jewelry except her wedding ring and a paracord survival bracelet Megan had given her to replace the one that had saved Lucy’s life back in January. This new one was black threaded through with silver wire that would make for a perfect garrote or lock pick, depending on your needs.

A jewelry box sat on the dresser, its lid dusty. Lucy never wore earrings or necklaces on the job—too easy for an assailant to grasp and use against you—but she had a few nice pieces Nick had given her over the years. She rummaged through them until she found the ones she wanted: filigree silver shaped in the form of calla lilies with freshwater pearls dangling from their centers.

“What about these?” she asked as Megan bustled back into the room, her arms brimming over with colorful scarves, beads, and a pair of dark purple cowboy boots.

“Now you’re getting the idea.” As Lucy slid the earrings on, Megan draped scarves across her shoulders, assessing the various combinations.

“I always end up dunking them in my food,” Lucy protested.

“Yeah, too frou-frou anyway.” She swept the scarves aside and switched to the necklaces, most of them Mardi Gras beads that Lucy wouldn’t wear even to a costume party. No way in hell was she going to spoil Megan’s fun, though. She could always change in the car before she got to Beacon Falls.

Megan shook her head, discarding each set of beads until she had one strand remaining. It was smaller than the others, the beads elongated and curved, in shades of eggplant purple, silver, and teal. Megan pulled up Lucy’s dark curls, doubling the strand over and around Lucy’s neck until it sat at her collarbone. “Perfect.”

It did look good. “We still haven’t solved the—”

“Oh yes, we have.” Megan held up her cowboy boots. They were ankle high with flat heels Lucy could probably manage without her cane. She was really hoping, despite the doctors’ prognostications, to wean herself off the damn cane.

“They’re purple. And turquoise and pink—”

“Magenta,” Megan corrected. “The purple matches the necklace, gives a little contrast to your suit, and you’ll never see the teal-and-magenta embroidery at the top under your slacks. Plus, I’m a half size larger than you, so the brace should fit and you can double up on socks for the other foot. Just try it.”

Lucy sat on the bed and allowed Megan to slide her foot with the brace into the boot. As promised, it fit. What was even more surprising was the way her daughter had assessed the situation and found a solution. Pride washed over her. Her baby girl was growing up.

“How’s that feel?” Megan asked as Lucy stood up. She took a few steps. The boots were surprisingly comfortable, giving her injured foot enough support without rubbing against the damaged nerves.

A wolf whistle interrupted her. Nick stood in the doorway, grinning. “Wow, you clean up nice.” He joined them, kissing Lucy and rumpling her hair. “Megan, grab your stuff, I’ll drop you at school.”

Megan ran back to her room. Lucy turned to Nick, the weight of the day hitting her. She didn’t need to say a word. He stepped to her, circling his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on top of her dark curls.

“What was I thinking?” she asked. “Joining a group of amateurs?”

“Amateurs with a damn good track record.” He was right. Valencia’s organization had a better clearance rate than most police departments’ cold case squads. But still…

“They’re all so young. Tommy Worth, the pediatric ER doc, is the oldest, and he’s only thirty-four. Their tech guy doesn’t even have a degree. Instead, he has a juvie record.” So unlike the High Tech Computer Crime squad she’d partnered with at the FBI. Those guys had more initials after their names than a can of alphabet soup—not to mention their genius level IQs.

“It will be all right,” Nick whispered. “You’ll make it work. You always do.”

“I wish I was as certain as you are.” She didn’t even bother to mention the final member of the team Valencia had put together for Lucy: a twenty-six-year-old former Marine MP who’d somehow managed to win a Bronze Star yet hadn’t been able to hold a steady job in the seventeen months since she’d left the Corps.

Lucy had a feeling there was a lot more to TK O’Connor’s story than what showed up in Valencia’s terse summary. She’d done a basic background check on TK, just like she had the others, but it had been a cipher, as if the woman had been living off the grid since her return stateside. On paper, TK barely existed. Lucy could not help but wonder what the former Marine would be like in real life.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nick reminded her. “We can make it with your FBI medical pension and my work. You can stay at home, do whatever you want. Learn Italian, write your memoirs, teach, anything.”

Retire
.
How Lucy hated the word. In her mind, it was the equivalent of
surrender
.

“Hang on. I thought of one more thing.” Megan breezed back into the room, vanished into the closet, and emerged with a black leather jacket that Lucy hadn’t worn since her undercover days. It was fitted, waist length, too short to conceal her weapon, which was why she never wore it, with bright silver zippers at the front, cuffs, and diagonally situated pockets.

“You’re going to knock ’em dead,” Nick whispered as he helped her on with the jacket.

Lucy wasn’t so sure. The jacket still smelled of perfume and cigarettes. And maybe was too young for her? She twisted, scrutinizing her image in the mirror. One good thing about months of unrelenting rehab—other than her leg, she was in the best damn shape of her life. Maybe she could pull it off.

She wrapped her arms around her family, tugging them to her, ignoring the spike of pain when she shifted too much weight to her left foot. “What would I do without you guys?”

“Start your new job naked?” Megan suggested, ducking Lucy’s fake punch and heading to the door. “C’mon, Dad. We’ll be late.”

“Got your karate gear?”

“It’s jujitsu, not karate.”

“Judo?”

“Jujitsu.”

“
Gesundheit
,”
Nick finished what surely was his three hundred and forty-first rendition of the joke. Both Megan and Lucy laughed even as they rolled their eyes and shook their heads at each other.

Megan herded Nick down the stairs, waving over her shoulder. “Good luck, Mom!”

“THE BEAUTIFUL THING
about gravity,” TK O’Connor called back over her shoulder as she planted one foot on the railing above the abandoned hospital’s narrow staircase and then launched herself to the wall on the opposite side, “is that she has no favorites. Sinner, saint, we all fall.”

She zigzagged over the railings, three feet above the steps, her feet never hitting the ground. At the top of the stairs, she pushed off the wall, flying into a front flip before landing.

Wilson grunted behind her. He had at least six inches on TK’s five-seven, with a longer reach, but his greater bulk put him at a disadvantage with some parkour moves. She’d designed this particular urban free-racing course with those in mind. Today, she was going to finally beat him. “You want to worship gravity? Like as a god?”