Raw Edges (4 page)

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stone.” Morgan smiled at Andre—a real smile, not one of her endless supply of artificial ones. She loved that after their last case, he trusted her enough to invite her to join him, even if a large part of it was his desire to keep an eye on her.

Jenna would be busy following her wild-goose chase after Clint, and maybe this new case would give Morgan a chance to keep Andre occupied while she lured her father close enough to turn the tables on him.

AFTER SEEING MORGAN
and Andre off on their fool’s errand, Jenna retreated to the office’s back closet to gather supplies for her manhunt. Extra magazines of ammunition for her SIG Sauer P226, a second SIG along with an ankle holster, ballistic vest, field trauma kit, stun gun, box of slugs for her Remington pump action, two pairs of handcuffs, zip ties, more zip ties, and, from a space hidden behind the carton of zip ties, a box of her favorite coconut-chocolate protein bars…which was empty. Damn it, how did Morgan always find them?

She hung her vest on a hook and secured the items in their respective pockets. Then she shook the vest roughly, checking for any extraneous rattles, loose gear, weight, and balance. Once she was satisfied, she grabbed the vest along with the rest of her equipment and returned to her office.

Only to find a hulking man wearing a black windbreaker and a scowl that on second glance was maybe a weird interpretation of a grin standing in her doorway. “You’re loaded for bear.”

“How’d you get in?” she demanded, stalking over to her desk and dumping everything on top of the map to hide it. She casually laid a hand on her SIG, still in its holster. How’d he sneak up on her? Such a big guy, she should have heard him coming a mile away. Except he wasn’t really that big, was he? Definitely not as tall as Andre, he just…felt big. With his Asian features, shaved head, massive shoulders. “Who the hell are you?”

“Oshiro. Timothy Oshiro. Deputy US Marshal.” He pointed to the insignia on his windbreaker, but it was faded to the point of being barely legible. As he shifted his weight, the jacket fell open to reveal a ballistic vest and the distinctive circular silver badge with a star in the center clipped to a chain around his neck.

“Oshiro.” She’d heard of him. “You’re leading the FAST team.” The Marshals service led multi-agency fugitive apprehension strike teams throughout the country. The one for Western PA had a particularly stellar success record.

“Yes, ma’am. Lucy Guardino thought I might find Morgan Ames here. As you can imagine, we’d appreciate a conversation with her. I understand she might have some insights into Clinton Caine. My men never saw her enter, but we spotted her leaving a little while ago with your associate, Mr. Stone, so I thought I’d come introduce myself.”

“You’re surveilling us?” Jenna wasn’t certain whether to be outraged or relieved. Morgan had increased security around the building, and Jenna had added more herself, especially to the loft upstairs that she shared with Andre, but no amount of security could keep anyone safe from Clinton Caine.

“Seemed a good idea, given you and Lucy were the two responsible for Caine being locked up in the first place. Not to mention his daughter working here.” He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t find much of anything on her, we’re not even sure of her exact age, but if she really is Clinton Caine’s daughter, wouldn’t she be a bit young to be assisting a pair of security consultants?”

She restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Of the three of them, Jenna, Andre, and Morgan, Morgan had the greatest real-life experience with criminal activity and thwarting security. Not that she’d ever admit that to Morgan’s face. “Do you have people following her and Andre?”

“Yes. But right now, I’m more interested in where you’re going.”

It was strange. Oshiro hadn’t moved from where he’d planted himself between the door and her desk, all he’d done was flick his eyes toward the map on her desk, yet Jenna felt compelled to confess. As if he’d become the center of gravity and there was no way she could resist that force.

Only one other person made her feel this way: Lucy Guardino. The thought brought with it a wave of resentment stronger than any invisible pull Oshiro wielded. “You have no right. Client confidentiality—”

“Only applies if you are a licensed private investigator. But seems like neither you nor Mr. Stone are licensed for anything…”

A loophole in the law she and Andre had taken advantage of: consultants didn’t need to waste time or red tape with official licenses. “We get the job done. Our customers certainly don’t complain—but they do expect that we respect their privacy.”

His chin inclined a fraction—a very, very minute fraction—of an inch. “Of course. But public safety comes first. I’ll have my men follow from a distance. As much for your partner’s and Ms. Ames’ protection as anything else.”

If Oshiro saw Andre and Morgan leave for Monroeville, maybe Caine or one of his fellow escapees had as well? Damn it, she’d told Andre they should not have taken that job. “Did they see anyone?”

“No one else followed Mr. Stone and Ms. Ames.”

That was good. Maybe she could use Morgan as bait to keep the marshals off Jenna’s back while she collected Caine and the reward. “If you don’t mind waiting until they finish our client consultation, I’ll text Andre and tell him your men will be taking Morgan into protective custody.”

Instead of relaxing, his lips tightened at her concession. As if he could see right through her ploy. Lucy would have if she’d been here. “Where is Lucy? She’ll be at the top of Caine’s list. Is she safe?”

“She is. Her daughter, as well.”

“And Nick? Her husband?” Jenna had no clue how he put up with Lucy as his wife, probably the same reason why Nick was so good at his job—had counseled Andre, in fact. Occasionally, Jenna talked to him as well. Just with stuff she didn’t want to dump on Andre.

“He insisted on staying in the city until he could clear his patient schedule. But he’s safe. Compared to you and Ms. Ames, he’s at low risk. Perhaps we should talk about protective custody for you?”

“No. I’m fine. Clint’s beef is with Lucy, not me.” She cringed at the memory of how useless she’d been during that final confrontation with Clinton Caine.

“Clint?” Interest sparked his gaze. “Exactly how well do you know Caine?”

“Enough to know you shouldn’t be wasting your time here with me. You should be out there trying to find him before he kills again.”

Oshiro’s stance was relaxed as he crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Standing in front of the door. Jenna ran through her repertoire of glares without luck. “You’re not going to let me leave alone.”

“I have no right to stop you. But doesn’t mean you’ll be going anywhere alone, no ma’am.”

Jenna grabbed her gear and the map. Might not be a bad idea, having a few massively armed men at her beck and call. “Fine, then. But if we find anything, Galloway and Stone get the credit.” She flounced past him as he held the door open for her, then looked back over her shoulder. “And the reward.”

THE RADCLIFFE HOUSE
surprised Morgan. When Andre drove them east on the Parkway out to Route 22, she’d been expecting to end up in one of the nouveau riche mini-mansions speckling the countryside beyond the Pittsburgh city limits. Instead, they’d arrived at a modest 1970’s split-level in Monroeville.

No wonder Jenna hadn’t wanted to come. Chasing after Clinton Caine promised fame and fortune—the return on investment in searching for a missing working class teenager could not compare. That’s how Jenna measured everything: did it help her get what she wanted? As long as you remained on the positive side of that equation, you remained in her life.

Sometimes Morgan could almost see the calculations spin through the air around Jenna when she was faced with a choice. It gave Morgan a clear advantage because it told her exactly how to manipulate Jenna, but lately she’d been surprised by how much Jenna’s cold heart angered her. Not because she cared at all about Jenna, but because of Andre. He might be a tough, battle-scarred Marine, but his heart was as fragile as spun glass—and just as easily shattered.

Morgan knew that someday she might need to decide if Andre was better off without Jenna in his life. But for now, Jenna made Andre happy, so she let it rest.

“Thank goodness you came.” A woman in her late thirties appeared at the front door, holding it open against the brisk March breeze. “Thank you,” she said, nodding her head and bowing her shoulders to Andre as he passed by her into the house. She wore jeans and a cable knit sweater that was almost the same shade as her hair. Corn silk, the luke-cold color was probably named.

“Thank you,” she repeated to Morgan, again with the strangely submissive head drop.

“Mrs. Radcliffe?” Andre asked as they crowded her slate-floored foyer that was maybe six feet square. Two sets of stairs led away from the tiny entryway: one headed up to an open floor plan with living room/dining room combo, kitchen, and hall presumably leading to bedrooms. The other led down to the garage and basement level. “I’m Andre Stone. From Galloway and Stone.”

“Diane, call me Diane,” their hostess said, her words pressured by nerves.

Andre and Morgan hung up their coats on the pegs she gestured to, alongside a crowded array of colorful knit hats and scarves and children’s snow jackets. Diane touched Andre’s arm as if reassuring herself that he was actually there and pointed the way to the living room, following him up the steps.

“This is my associate, Morgan Ames,” Andre made introductions once they’d all reached the landing at the top, another cramped area, this time carpeted. He side-stepped the entrance to the tiny galley kitchen to enter the living room, which featured a sectional sofa, its beige microsuede stained by a cocktail of fruit flavored colors, evidence of young children. A recliner took the place of honor in front of the bay window, directly across from a large flat screen TV and a wedding photo of Diane and a man wearing an Army dress uniform, his posture ramrod straight, his gaze bayonet sharp.

“Please, sit, sit,” Diane Radcliffe said as she took a seat on the sofa then bounced back up again. “Oh wait, wait, I have it here, ready for you.”

She bustled into the dining room, rummaged in a drawer of the faux-oak china cabinet, and returned holding a thick envelope. Still ignoring Morgan, she presented it to Andre and stepped back, dropping her head once again.

“I had to take a loan from my 401K,” she said, directing her words to the carpet, “but I was able to get the ten thousand she asked for.”

Finally she dared to look up, craning her neck to make eye contact with Andre, who towered over her. “It’s all I have. But please, please, it has to be enough. Please find him. Find my boy and bring him home.”

Morgan stepped back, leaving Andre and the mother in the center of the room. She knew what came next, and it wasn’t her department.

Sure enough, the mother blubbered into tears, knees buckling. Right on cue, Andre caught her before she hit the floor and guided her to the sofa. She hugged his arm as sobs overwhelmed her, smearing his shoulder with snot.

Definitely not Morgan’s department. She sidled into the galley-style kitchen—it was narrow, barely enough room for her to pass between the appliances and counters lining each side. As she rummaged through the cabinets until she found a glass, she noticed a magnet advertising Galloway and Stone affixed to the fridge, holding a coupon for a family portrait at the March Madness celebration at the mall. She hadn’t realized Jenna had embarked on an advertising campaign—after their recent successes, they were turning away business. Typical Jenna, good was never good enough.

Morgan found a glass, filled it with water, grabbed a handful of napkins, and returned to set them on the glass and chrome coffee table in front of Andre and the woman. Newspapers from the last few days were scattered across the tabletop, including one folded to a story featuring Jenna and their last case. Guess it was obvious why Diane Radcliffe had thought to call them first when her son went missing.

While Morgan waited for the show of waterworks to end, she looked around. Family photos adorned the wall across from the large screen TV: a boy and girl, maybe eight to ten, both with their mother’s washed-out blond hair, ran laughing and playing. A few formal family portraits with a frowning man—the soldier from the wedding photo, now looking awkward in his civilian clothing—possessively circling his arms around the two kids and Diane; a third child, older, gangly with brown hair, standing outside the circle. That would be their subject, Gibson Radcliffe. Son of a previous relationship, saddled with the Radcliffe family name—although who the hell named their kid Gibson unless they had a death wish for the boy?—but never actually part of the Radcliffe family.

She counted nine framed photos: Gibson only appeared in the two formal portraits. Nowhere else. As if his parents—or his father, stepfather, whatever—wanted plausible deniability.

And now here they were. “Do you have a more recent photo?” she asked once the waterworks had subsided. Giving the parents something to do usually helped move things along.

Diane separated from Andre only far enough to reach first for the napkins to blow her nose and then for the envelope. She pushed it to Andre, even though it had been Morgan who requested the information. “It’s all in there. Everything Mrs. Galloway asked for when I spoke with her on the phone.”

Andre didn’t bother to correct Diane’s assumptions about Jenna’s marital status as he turned the envelope upside down to empty its contents on the tabletop. He frowned at the cashier’s check for the ten grand. Morgan knew he and “Mrs. Galloway” would be having a conversation about that, but personally, she approved of Jenna’s tactic. It separated the serious clients from the ones who’d seen the news about Galloway and Stone and wanted to work with the best but pay nothing.

A few photos wafted out: a baby still in his hospital bassinette; a faded photo of a young, exhausted, but happy Diane cradling her newborn son; the requisite elementary school photo with a shy, toothy grin missing two teeth; a sullen pre-teen, lock of hair covering half his face, gaze missing the camera by a mile; and finally the downright belligerent, dead-eyed stare of a sixteen-year-old boy with a severe crew cut.