Switchback (11 page)

“Would you stop that before you make a sore?” His gaze was fastened on her mouth. “You're constantly gnawing that lip.”

She immediately stopped. “It's better than grinding my teeth like you do. My lip will mend. Molar enamel won't.”

He tightened his jaws and ground his teeth. When he realized he was doing exactly what she had just accused him of, he rolled his eyes and tried to stop. Perverse though it was, she was pleased when she saw his jaw begin to ripple again.

“I guess it's not a good time for either of us to swear off a bad habit,” he admitted. “It just worries me, that's all, the way you go after that lip. It's going to be hamburger by the time this is over.”

Her mouth was the least of her worries, Mallory thought. The gurgle of the coffeemaker was the only sound in the room for several seconds. At last he ended the silence with another heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. “I've been doing some thinking, Mallory. We only have a few hours left. The key would have been found if it was in Keith's shoe, and whoever undressed him would have put it with the other valuables. I'm fresh out of ideas where else to look for the key. There's not much point in my sitting here doing nothing when I could be working the streets. We may not be able to deliver that package to Lucetti, after all. And if we can't, there's only one other way to rescue Em.”

“What's that?”

“I have to find her. To do that, I have to find Lucetti.”

“But you said he'd give us more time. You said you couldn't find him, that no one could, that—”

“I
know
what I said. But what if he won't give us more time? It wouldn't be a smart move on his part to refuse, but neither was kidnapping Em before he knew we had the things he wanted. Getting information on him won't be easy. But if I hit the streets and grease enough palms, I should be able to get some leads. Between Shelby and me, we should come up with something. I have a few—” he paused and cleared his throat again “—a few
friends
, old connections. One of them, a gal named Corrine, could probably give me something on Lucetti if I can find her.”

“But—” she lifted her hands “—why can't I help?”

“It's not your kind of neighborhood. Look... I've done it a hundred times. I don't need you along.”

“Maybe I need to go. Did you think of that? It's my daughter we're talking about. I can't just sit someplace—in some stranger's house—doing nothing.” It was on the tip of her tongue to add that she didn't feel welcome at Shelby's, but she swallowed the words back; how she felt about
that
wasn't important. She'd do it in a minute if she thought it would help Em. “How would you feel? I'd go crazy. I want to help, Mac. Even if I can't do much, I'll feel better trying.”

“No!” An angry glitter crept into his gaze. “Mallory Christiani combing the streets? It'd be like parking a Rolls-Royce in a junkyard and expecting no one to notice. And don't forget, someone's trying to kill you. You shouldn't be going anyplace where you stand out.”

“I've got slacks and stuff to wear.”

“Slacks? You think that'll make you—” He broke off. “I'll be questioning prostitutes. You just don't have the look.”

“Meaning?” Mallory glanced down at herself. “I don't have the right equipment or what?”

Mac certainly hadn't meant to infer that she was sexless. Far from it. If she stood on Aurora Avenue to advertise her wares, she'd draw passing cars like a tollbooth on an expressway. Twice today, she had nearly been killed. To knowingly put her at risk again would be insane.

He clenched his teeth. He was having trouble dealing with this fierce feeling of protectiveness she brought out in him. Talk about acting like a jerk; he deserved an award. How could he have been so cruel? Was it necessary to hurt her?
Yes.

Ordinarily, taking her into downtown Seattle wouldn't have been a concern. It was rough, but not
that
rough. But with killers after them? That was a different story. He understood her need to be actively involved in trying to save her daughter. He knew how miserable she would be sitting at Shelby's. But miserable or not, at least she wouldn't get hurt there.

“You aren't going,” he said in a reasonable tone.

“How do you know we won't be followed to Shelby's? The minute you leave, I could find myself facing three men with guns. Mac, please, I won't get in the way. I could stay in the car.”

“Won't be any car. Yours is still at the hospital, remember? And mine no longer exists. I'll be taking a cab, then walking.”

“But that would leave you stranded. We can take Keith's BMW. The one in the garage.”

He studied her pale face with a sinking feeling in his guts. She was right about a lot of things. He didn't want to be stuck downtown without a car. And someone might follow them to Shelby's. It was so obvious a possibility that it scared him to think he had overlooked it. Was he so exhausted that his brain was no longer functioning? If he left her, he might return to find her dead. At least he could watch out for her if she was with him. Or make arrangements for someone else to. It would make his job much more difficult, worrying about her every second while he was dealing for information, but the more he thought about it the better it seemed than the possible alternatives.

“Oh, all right. But no slacks. Don't you have some jeans?”

“Um...some designer types. Would those do?”

Mac hated to think what Mallory's idea of designer jeans were. “Go get them on. And go heavy on the makeup. You don't want to stand out any more than you have to.”

He rose from the chair and stepped over to the bar.

“Who are you phoning? I thought the lines might be bugged?”

“If I take you along, I won't be able to stay with you every second. I'm calling in some recruits. I'll watch what I say.”

* * *

A
N
HOUR
AND
a half later, Mallory stepped across the threshold into Mac's downtown Seattle apartment, where they had stopped so he could change into what he called street clothes. As he shoved the door open for her it pushed aside the heap of mail that his landlord had been sticking through his mail slot this past week. She sidestepped the scattered envelopes and cast a curious glance around. The mail-littered entranceway stretched into an equally untidy living room. She remembered all the junk in his Volvo and realized neatness was not one of Mac's strong suits. Neither was interior decorating. She had never seen such a hodgepodge. Nothing matched, not even the two end tables.

He scooped a pair of running shoes off the floor, grabbed some sweatpants and several newspapers off the brown recliner, then smiled. “Excuse the mess.” He dumped everything on the sofa, looking a little embarrassed. “Have a seat.”

Mallory eased herself into the recliner and watched him disappear through a doorway. Drawers thunked. She could hear him stripping off his clothes. His change jangled as he tossed his slacks—probably onto the bed or a chair. Her gaze trailed around the living room. Lived in, but not really dirty. The furniture didn't reside under layers of dust, so he apparently cleaned, or had it done, on a regular basis.

Restless, she rose from the chair and wandered around the room. Along one wall, he had a bookcase. Law books, a dated preparation course for a general equivalency diploma, several blockbuster novels—the lusty variety—a book that promised perfect spelling with an investment of ten minutes a day, a dog-eared Bible and books on investigation. A pile of gun manuals rested on the bottom shelf with three large and very expensive volumes on the works of great painters. She trailed her fingertips down the spine of the GED preparation book.
You spew big words like a walking dictionary.
The accusation came back to haunt her. Had Mac been deprived of a high-school education?

She wandered over to the component stereo system and portable television, which were housed in an entertainment center along the opposite wall. As she scanned the albums and tapes to see what kind of music he enjoyed—mostly outdated rock and roll—her attention was snagged by a flash of metal. Midway up on a right-hand shelf, a photo of a lovely, gray-haired woman smiled down at Mallory from a gold filigree frame. Moving closer, Mallory wondered if this was a likeness of Mac's mother. Looking into the woman's clear gray eyes, she guessed it must be and found herself envying Mac for having been raised by someone so plump and huggable looking. A real “mom” type who probably still wore an apron when she made pies, the kind who would probably say “I love you” at least once daily. Mallory's gaze shifted to another photo, a candid shot of a much younger Mac standing with his arm around a slightly built boy with platinum-blond hair and blue eyes.

Randy.

Mallory's heart felt as though it stopped beating. Randy Watts? Her late husband's best friend in college? She stared at the picture, at the two youthful faces, one startlingly similar to the other when you saw them so close together. Mac's face, even in his early years, had been rugged and masculine, but his mouth and chin resembled Randy's. Their noses had even been alike before Mac's had been broken so many times.
Brothers.
The truth hit her hard, right between the eyes.

She remembered now that Randy had told Darren he had an older half brother, an ex-Marine. Whirling away from the irrefutable evidence, Mallory clamped a hand over her mouth. All the snide remarks Mac had made to her since yesterday came back to taunt her. No wonder. She had once been Bettina Rawlins's best friend. Bettina had killed Randy Watts as surely as if she had held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Mallory and Darren had seen it coming, but they had been helpless to stop it.

Oh, no, please...
She turned to look at the picture once more. It was terrible of her, but as much as she regretted what had happened to Randy, her foremost feeling now was desperation. She needed Mac. So did Em. If he abandoned them, what would she do? What should she say to him when he returned from the bedroom?
I didn't know you were Randy's brother. My, it's big of you, helping me like this.

She dragged her hand from her mouth and pressed it to her waist. Mac had known who she was from the first. Looking back, she felt sure of that. For some reason, he had chosen not to talk about Randy. Maybe it was cowardly, but she wouldn't risk alienating him by forcing the issue. Not
now
.

She could hear him rummaging in his bedroom. At any moment, he would come out. She couldn't be standing here looking like she had just seen a ghost. He would guess why. She looked around for something constructive to do so he wouldn't think she'd been snooping. She stepped into the kitchen and found where he kept his empty paper bags. Returning to the living room with one, she began gathering his mail, stuffing it into the sack.

When Mac reappeared, she was just finishing. Face flaming, she turned to look at him. “I, um, thought I'd pick it up for you, take it along. Maybe you can go through it later.”

He had undergone a transformation in the other room. Gone were the respectable jacket and slacks, replaced by tight, faded blue jeans and a red sport shirt that revealed a sexy V of tanned, muscular chest. At his throat was a heavy, gold chain. The outfit was capped off with a black leather jacket, the collar tipped up around his neck. Showing below the frayed cuffs were thick leather wristbands, peppered with brass brads. Even she had seen enough television to know the wristbands were to protect the forearms in a knife fight. They were wicked looking, so uncharacteristic of the Mac she knew that they made her shiver.

His blond hair was tousled, curling across his forehead in lazy waves, slicked back on the sides. He looked like someone she wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, hard and ruthless. For an instant, she almost felt like laughing. But the way he stood, one lean hip slung outward, shoulders hunched, doused her amusement. That tough-guy air wasn't something he'd acquired by practicing in front of a mirror. For an instant, an icy tendril of alarm coiled in the pit of her belly. Which was ridiculous. This was the man who had held her in his arms last night.

She folded down the top of the sack with tense fingers, acutely aware of Randy's picture smiling down at her only a few feet away. Mac's attention dropped to her hands. She prayed he wouldn't see how they were trembling. “Ready?” he asked softly.

“I—” She licked her lips. “Sure. I'm ready if you are.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the entertainment center. When he looked back at her, there was a question in his eyes. She averted her face and prayed he wouldn't choose to confront her now. She had no idea what to say.
I'm sorry?
That seemed pitifully inadequate.
I had nothing to do with it?
That wasn't entirely true. Both she and Darren had known how Bettina operated, that to her Randy was nothing but a passing fancy. A poor kid, someone she never would have dared take home. The Rawlinses had planned for their daughter to marry a local senator's son. Randy wouldn't have even been in the running. Darren had tried to warn him, but Randy had believed Bettina's coquettish lies, that she loved him and would one day defy her father to marry him. No, Mallory couldn't honestly claim she was blameless. She could have done something more. What, she wasn't sure, but there must have been something. Wringing Bettina's neck, for starters.

Mac didn't glance toward Randy's picture again, but she still had the feeling he knew why she was suddenly so nervous.

“Before we leave, let's go through a few ground rules,” he told her in a low voice. “Number one, in case there's trouble, I want you to promise you'll do exactly what I tell you.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Number two, don't call attention to me by looking surprised or asking questions. We'll be hitting the waterfront area, Aurora Avenue and the intersecting streets. If that's a dead end, maybe the airport. As I'm sure you know, those areas draw lowlifes this time of night. To get information, I have to be part chameleon.”