No One Left to Tell (20 page)

Holy shit
. She was being attacked. Unable to look away, Adele watched to the end, breathing a sigh of relief when they said the woman was okay.
Glad I’m not her
.

Chapter Eight

Tuesday, April 5, 8.00
P.M
.

G
rayson had asked her to move to the front seat, but Paige had declined, saying she needed the physical space. Based on the way she clung to the dog, he suspected it was more the emotional space she needed.

‘I taught self-defense,’ she began. ‘In Minneapolis. Most of my students were women, most had abusive spouses. A few were victims of random violence.’

He’d put that much together on his own. ‘Who was Thea?’

‘One of my students. She was afraid to leave her husband, but she had a sister who convinced her to learn to defend herself.’

‘Did she ever leave him?’

‘Eventually. She got a job at the women’s center. Her husband gave her an ultimatum – quit or get out. She shocked him by moving in with her sister. Time passed, then one night he tried to grab her when she was walking from the women’s center to her car. He’d been leaving notes in her mailbox, ordering her home.’

‘Why didn’t she report him?’ Grayson asked quietly, although he already knew.

‘He was a cop. She was afraid no one would believe her, or worse, that there would be retaliation. In the end, she was right. The first time I saw him grab her we’d just finished class. I restrained him, threatened to report him if he didn’t leave. He did.’

‘Did you report him anyway?’ he asked.

‘No. I was going to, but she begged me not to. Promised she would do it herself. I believed her. And I have to live with that, because she didn’t report him and he tried again a week later. She was outside her sister’s house, but her sister screamed and scared him off, then filed for a restraining order.’

‘What happened?’

‘We heard that her husband was facing disciplinary action by the department because of the TRO. She was scared, but what can you do? We went on as usual. I’d taught class that last night. Everyone was gone except Thea and me. I heard them break in, dialed 911 on my cell, dropped it in my pocket. The operator heard it all.’

Her hands clenched and unclenched as she maintained an outward calm. But the look of raw panic in her eyes when she’d begged him not to hold her down in the garage flashed in his mind and he dreaded what he was about to hear.

‘There were four of them?’ He’d wanted to ask gently, but his tone came out harsh.

‘Yes. But it’s not what you’re thinking. They didn’t rape me.’ She blew out a breath as his shoulders sagged in relief. ‘The four guys wore masks. One of them had Thea, had a gun to her head. I knew it was her husband.’

‘He planned to kill his wife?’

‘I don’t know. To this day, I don’t know. He definitely wanted to scare her. And discredit me. He told his friends to “show the black belt a thing or two”.’

Grayson swallowed back the anger. ‘Like you said to Bashears outside the ER.’

‘Yes. The men had drawn straws on who got to attack first. It was a big joke to them. Thea was so scared.’ Her voice cracked then, broke. ‘I can still see her, staring at me. Begging me to do something. To help her. But I didn’t help her.’

She was trembling, one hand pressed to her shoulder. ‘I couldn’t help her.’ Her voice had become ragged. ‘I couldn’t even help myself. And I have to live with that, too.’

To hell with space. He got out of the car and opened her door, pulling her out and into his arms. He guided her hands to his back, under his coat. ‘Hold onto me and breathe.’

He wrapped his coat around her, laying his cheek on her head to shelter her from the rain. And camera lenses or, God help them, snipers’ scopes. She held on tight. He held on tighter.

And admitted that he needed to hold her as much as she needed to be held. There was a loneliness in this woman that called to him. Because he was lonely too.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled against him.

‘Hush,’ he murmured, stroking his hand down her hair. ‘You’re fine.’ He looked around, conscious of the danger of standing out in the open, wishing he were just being paranoid and knowing he wasn’t. ‘We can’t stand here. Get back in the car.’

She got in the back seat and kept her head down until he’d pulled away from the parking lot. ‘What next?’ she asked.

‘Same song, second verse. We find out who killed Crystal Jones.’

Tuesday, April 5, 8.10
P.M
.

Silas lowered his rifle as Grayson Smith drove away. He looked down at his shaking hands. He’d had Paige in his sights for a brief moment.

But he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. He’d seen them drive up to Delgado’s house as he was driving away. He’d followed them here, to this burger joint, waiting for his clear shot. He’d failed this morning. He needed to make that right. Regain trust.

But Paige had stayed down.
Smart girl
. That they’d brought in the cop dismayed him on too many levels. When his employer found out, it would be far worse. Hopefully the man had a Plan B, or they were all going down.

Silas calmed himself. His employer always had a Plan B, as did Silas.

That’s how Silas himself had become entangled with the man, after all. His employer had been Silas’s Plan B.
Now, I’m his. For the rest of my life
.

He’d had a clear shot for a single moment, when Smith had pulled her from the car and into his arms. But the look on her face had shaken him. She’d been so valiant, all day, through everything. But in that moment she’d been devastated. Afraid.

Silas’s hand had trembled. Then he couldn’t take the shot without hitting the prosecutor, too. His employer would have been fine with the collateral damage. But Silas couldn’t bring himself to do that, either.

He’d never killed a friend. Not yet. But that might have to change.

He brought out the picture he always carried next to his heart. His little girl smiled out at him, one tooth missing, a smudge of chocolate ice cream on her chin. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his aching heart. Cherri had been five and it had been the Fourth of July, twenty long years ago. The picture was faded now, its edges worn from constant handling.

I miss you, baby. Every damn day of my life
.

He slid the photo back in his pocket and flipped open his phone. His baby’s baby smiled at him now. Violet had Cherri’s smile. He’d keep his granddaughter safe. He’d make sure she never found out the truth.

Even if that meant killing a valiant woman who’d done nothing more than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even if that meant killing a friend.

I failed again
. At least his employer didn’t have to know about this one.

Silas put his rifle back in its case and, shifting his focus to his next assignment, picked up the picture he’d printed from the Internet. Roscoe ‘Jesse’ James was an ugly sonofabitch who’d taken way too many punches to the head over his fighting career.

James had been arrested many times, but always managed to skate. He was just one lucky sonofabitch. Silas chuckled bitterly. James’s luck was about to run out.

Tuesday, April 5, 8.15
P.M
.

He lowered his binoculars as Silas drove away.
Busy parking lot tonight
, he thought wryly. He shook a cigarette from the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply.

He’d learned more than he’d planned. He’d learned that Paige Holden really did know something. He’d learned that they’d called in a cop on the QT. Not good.

It meant they knew cops were involved, otherwise Miss Holden would have handed over whatever she’d found to the police that morning. Mazzetti had been a good choice on their parts. She was . . . untouchable. He should know. He’d tried, long ago. She hadn’t taken the bait. She was one of those foul creatures – an honest cop.

He’d also learned that there was definitely something going on between Holden and Smith. He’d figured it after seeing the news, but now he knew for sure. That was especially useful. Smith had a family. Men with families were so . . . easily persuaded.

And finally, he’d learned what he’d actually come for.
Silas is getting soft
. He’d suspected it for some time. He’d followed Silas, to find out for sure. That he’d balked over killing Roscoe James was bad enough. That Silas looked ill after leaving Delgado’s house was worse. But then he’d had Holden and Smith in his sights and he’d choked.

The boy needs a refresher course
. That would be easy enough to provide. And if the refresher didn’t work, he had no compunction in following through with his threat.

Now he needed to decide what to do about Holden and Smith. He considered briefly, then made his decision and took out his phone.

The call was immediately picked up. ‘Well?’

‘The cops are involved now,’ he said.

‘You
said
you’d fixed it so they’d never find out.’

‘Well, unfortunately they did. We always knew positioning Ramon Muñoz to take the blame wasn’t guaranteed. We need to move to our alternate plan.’

There was a long, tense silence. ‘Damn that bitch. She should have left it alone.’

He wasn’t sure if the reference was to Elena or Crystal Jones. ‘Are you agreed?’

‘Yes.’ The word was bitten out. ‘Do what you have to do. Just fix it.’

The connection was abruptly broken, leaving him staring at his phone. ‘I always do.’

Tuesday, April 5, 9.00
P.M
.

Paige was quiet as she walked Peabody up to her apartment. Grayson stayed a step behind to cover her. He’d walk her dog once she was safely inside.

He was on alert, listening for the smallest noise. But the stairwell was empty and by the second flight he found his eyes straying to the view provided by the skintight pants she wore. From this angle he could see the shadow of her glutes flexing with every step she took. That she wore three guns and five knives under all those clothes made the overall picture even more appealing.

When they got to her front door, his focus was shifted jarringly back to her safety. She’d taken every precaution, he thought grimly. Second-floor unit, steel door, three new deadbolts. Not to mention a large dog and a veritable arsenal on her person. That she felt she needed all those precautions made him angry all over again.

‘The deadbolts are probably overkill,’ she said quietly, ‘but it makes me feel better.’

‘Then it’s not overkill,’ he said, and a smile tipped her lips.

Once they were inside, she locked the three deadbolts, then dropped her backpack on an old-fashioned secretary desk. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said and went to the kitchen, leaving him to study her apartment, surprised.

He’d expected a sleekly modern look. Instead, she’d surrounded herself with brightly painted antiques that made him think of lederhosen and cuckoo clocks.

A large antique-looking pie safe dominated one wall in her living room, again surprising him. Her place had an old-time, prairie feel that he wouldn’t have paired with the woman he knew. But oddly, it suited her. It was comfortable. Homey. He sat on her sofa, relieved to find it comfortable as well. He’d be able to sleep here. His eye drifted down the hall to what was most certainly her bedroom. Her bed would be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the sofa. But once he got there, he wouldn’t sleep.

And neither would she.

The buzzing in his pants pocket startled him until he remembered he’d never given her back the disposable cell she’d dropped in the garage. ‘Your disposable is ringing.’

‘It’s Clay.’ She rushed from the kitchen, her hand outstretched. He tossed her the phone and she flipped it open. ‘It’s me,’ she answered. ‘Where are you?’

Her face grew dark and angry. ‘What a bitch.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yeah, we saw him. He was dead.’ She met Grayson’s eyes. ‘He brought in a cop that he trusts. You recall a Detective Mazzetti? . . . I promise I’ll be careful. Call me when you’ve got Zach.’

‘Zach’s the one whose mother took him,’ Grayson said. ‘What’s the mother done?’

‘She wants ten thousand from Zach’s dad for returning their six year old, safe.’

‘After all these years, I’m still occasionally stunned at what parents do to their kids.’

Paige shrugged. ‘It’s the drugs. They’ll do anything, say anything for the drugs. Because the reality is that they love themselves and the drugs more than their kids.’

There was a hard yet wistful note to her voice. Grayson had talked to enough kids of addict parents to know he was listening to one right now. He followed her into the kitchen where she was putting a kettle on the stove.

‘I’m making tea. Would you like some?’

‘Sure.’ He leaned against the doorframe, watched her spoon tea into a pot. ‘Your décor surprises me. I wouldn’t have pictured you as the Little House type.’

Her lips curved fondly. ‘My grandfather made the cupboard and my desk. His grandfather made the table. I’m the end of a very long line of Minnesotan Norwegians.’

He laughed. ‘You’re kidding. Norwegian would have been my last guess.’

Her chin lifted, ever so slightly. ‘Because of my hair?’

He moved closer, stroked her hair down her back. ‘And your eyes,’ he said softly.

Her cheeks heated. ‘Blond Norwegians are something of a stereotype,’ she said lightly. ‘There are dark ones, too. Just not in my family,’ she added ruefully.

‘Your mother was blond?’

Her hands stilled on the teacups she’d just taken from the cupboard. ‘Yeah.’

‘And your father?’ He was snooping now, but he wanted to know.

‘Don’t know,’ she said tightly. ‘Never met him. Would you like some pie?’

Not the most elegant of subject changes, but he went with it. ‘Did you make it?’