This Year's Black (11 page)

Devin landed a hard haymaker to one opponent’s right eye. His elbow connected with the second guy’s solar plexus. What followed was a vicious combination of hits and kicks to both men. The whole thing looked more like a caged mixed martial arts fight than a street fight. He might work in fashion, but the muscles and ink weren’t just for show—dollars to donuts, he
’
d earned both the old-fashioned way. Within thirty seconds, he had the men moaning on the ground.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here before more show up,” she called to him.

He nodded and sprinted to the front porch, grabbed an empty wine bottle, and smashed it against the railing. Dark red liquid splashed over the wood. Gripping the bottle neck, he trotted down the steps to the driveway and plunged the sharp edge into the trucks’ tires, flattening at least one tire on each of the four trucks.

Then they took off across the pineapple field, dodging the spiky bushes as they made quick work of the distance. They had to get to the police before the rest of the Molina family found them.

…

The local police headquarters was housed in the only two-story building on the island. The tan stone structure stood like a plain cousin amongst the brightly colored stores that lined Andol City’s downtown. And because this whole trip was FUBARed already, it seemed appropriate that the station sat right across the street from Tea Time.

Ryder would give the Molinas one thing, they had balls. It took big stones to locate a smuggling cover operation dead in the local authorities
’y
sights. That either meant they were overly cocky or legitimately confident in their ability to get away with their crimes. Considering how the islanders reacted with either fear or guilt whenever she brought up the Molinas, it was probably the latter. Dirty cops were a reality all over the world. Still, as a cop
’
s kid, not notifying the police about a crime was akin to growing up with dentists for parents and never brushing your teeth.

She twisted in her seat to give Devin her full attention. “There
’
s a good chance the cops are on the family payroll.”

“Agreed.” He nodded. “Which is why this is a stupid move.”

She clenched her teeth and made it to five before exploding. When it came to her personal life her instincts were for shit, but when it mattered—when lives were on the line—her gut was good. “You
’
re not in charge of this investigation. I am. And I say we
’
re going to the cops.”

“Why?” He hurled the question at her like a hand grenade.

“Because shit is hitting the fan and I don
’
t like our odds. We won
’
t know for sure if the cops are bought until we get in there. We can’t assume. That’s how people get hurt.” Flames beat against her cheeks and she had to stop and take a deep breath. Calmer, she continued. “Keep everything close to the vest until we figure it out.”

Though he clearly didn
’
t like it, he grunted his assent and circled around to the back of the station, where he parked the Jeep in the lot bordering the alley. That would keep the hot pink vehicle out of sight from Dominga, who no doubt was on the lookout from her perch at the tea shop.

Devin turned off the motor. “You ready?”

Ryder glanced in the Jeep’s visor mirror at the bruises forming on the left side of her face and winced. “Why is it that cuts and bruises always hurt more once you actually see them?”

“Because life is a real bitch that way.” He wiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, clearing away some of the dried blood, but a new trickle started as soon as he removed pressure. “Let’s get this winning plan over with.”

No longer bathed in pain-blocking adrenaline, her body ached as they crossed the parking lot. Without even looking, she figured she could pinpoint at least fifteen bruises from her toes to her eyebrows. No broken bones, thank God, but enough hurt to slow her step and add a slight limp to compensate for a pain in her right thigh.

Devin wasn’t quite at his normal pace, either. Pea green bruises covered his swollen jaw. His left eye had puffed out, foretelling of a hell of a shiner tomorrow. What other injuries lay hidden under his white linen shirt and dark slacks, she could only guess at based on his deliberate pace and the way he held his right arm away from his side.

“Your ribs broken?” Ryder grabbed the handle of the glass door and pulled it open.

He shook his head. “Bruised. I’ll live.”

An overhead fan pushed stale, humid air around the barren front lobby. It was “decorated” by a few folding chairs, an empty desk, and large, full color portraits of The Andol Republic’s president and vice president. An older model computer monitor took up a third of the space on the desk, an empty wire in-and-out basket sat on the opposite side, and a hotel bell sat in the middle. A small folded note in front of the bell read:
Receptionist at lunch. Ring for service.

She did. Nothing happened.

“Anyone home?” Devin’s voice boomed in the quiet room.

“I’ll be with you in one moment,” a voice called from the hallway to the right.

A second later, an officer wearing a light blue uniform shirt and tan khaki pants appeared in a wheelchair at the end of the hall. He rolled toward them. “Sorry about that, I just returned from lunch and the other officers on duty just left for theirs.” He stopped behind the desk. “
Dios
, what happened to you two? Shall I call for medical attention?”

“No, thank you.” Devin paused and looked at Ryder. “Unless you need it?”

Ryder shook her head. “No. Just banged up.”

The officer looked skeptical but let the idea of a hospital slide. “So how about you start at the beginning and walk me through what happened.” He pulled several sheets of paper from a desk drawer and retrieved a pen from a cup holder. “Let’s start with your names.”

She and Devin took turns explaining they were in The Andol Republic for the fashion week events, being sure to leave out that the old friend they were looking for had embezzled almost five million dollars, as well as exactly how they
’
d ended up at Sarah
’
s pineapple farm. The longer they told their story, the more the officer clammed up, and the more often he looked behind him as if waiting for the boogeyman to attack.

Ryder
’
s skin crawled. The officer might not be dirty but, judging by his nervous ticks, he wouldn’t going to be any help, either.

“And you just accidentally ended up at the Molina family farm…where thugs attacked you for no apparent reason?” the officer asked, a noticeable shake bouncing each syllable before it left his lips.

Telling him about the diamonds wasn
’
t going to do anything but give any dirty cops and the Molinas more motivation to hunt them down. As far as the Molinas knew now, she and Devin had never seen the stolen jewelry.

“That
’
s right,” she answered as she shot Devin a telling glance that she hoped yelled
keep your mouth shut
.

“They jumped us for no reason at all,” Devin all but growled.

The officer gulped and took a slow look around the nearly empty room, his eyes settling on the closed entry door before returning to them.

Ryder’s stomach twisted. Whatever was coming next, she wasn’t going to like.

“I once filed a report very similar to this one.” The officer faltered, but only for a moment, then an unconvincing smile appeared on his face. “I’ve been in this wheelchair ever since.” He raised a hand. “Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t make your report. Just know there are consequences on this island for this type of action—e
ven for a policeman
. For a tourist whom no one here knows or will miss…”

Forget about having elephant
cajones
to establish a crime business front across from the police station. The Molina family obviously didn’t waste time worrying about the cops. If they could do whatever it took to put a cop in a wheelchair, they feared nothing.

“Thank God you weren
’
t more seriously injured by these…unknown hooligans,”othe officer said.

Devin crossed his arms, the motion making him grimace. “Are you going to investigate this at all?”

“Of course, but we are a small department.” The officer shrugged. “It may take some time before our detective can look into your allegations.”

Ryder couldn’t believe the Molina assholes were going to get away with it all, and probably not for the first time. But it looked like that was exactly what would happen—unless she and Devin did something about it. “I see.”

“I hope you do,” the cop murmured.

Devin pushed up from his chair and headed for the door. Ryder followed suit. A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot as they pulled out. The two officers inside gave the Jeep a long, hard stare before one of the cops winked. His smile was anything but friendly.

Obviously, there wasn’t much else she and Devin could accomplish through official channels. Whatever happened next, it was up to them.

Chapter Eleven

“
I think it’s the responsibility of a designer to try to break rules and barriers.”

—
Gianni Versace

Fifteen minutes later, Devin’s silent treatment was about to make Ryder nuts. If it wasn’t for the birds
chirping
, there wouldn’t have been a sound inside the vehicle as he steered the Jeep down the same highway the Palm Inn was located on. Frustrated aggression rolled off him in swells big enough to flatten her curly hair into stick-straight strands.

Well, he wasn’t the only one pissed off at the world right now. Staying quiet after the crap sandwich they’d just been served had her twitchy, but despite her attempts to get
a conversation
going, Devin had completely ignored her—unless you counted him double-checking her safety belt, which she did not. At the pineapple farm, they’d clicked as if they’d been working together for years. No second thoughts. No second guessing. Everything right the first time. Now the pendulum had swung back to fractious, and it pissed Ryder off more than she wanted to admit. The inability to run away from or punch the annoyance had her as edgy as her dog during a thunderstorm.

Keeping her focus on the sidewalks and buildings they passed, watching for signs of trouble, she decided to give it one more shot before the tension ate a hole through her stomach lining.

“Where are we going?” Walking away from a half dozen black tank tops and a few pairs of jeans wasn’t going to kill her. However, finding members of the Molina family or the winking cop in her room just might. “We can’t go back to the hotel.”

“Agreed.”

One syllable was an improvement compared to silencer mode, but she was going to strangle him with her shoelaces if he didn’t form a full sentence soon. “So, are you going to tell me, or do I need to finish the job those goons started?”

He suddenly grinned, and it was 100 percent pure, cocky, testosterone-driven jock. “You really think you can take me?”

“Without a doubt.”
Okay, maybe a little doubt.

His fingers relaxed against the steering wheel. “How about once we get back to Harbor City, I give you a chance?”

“Challenge accepted.” In reality, home was a world away, but at the moment, it felt like it was in another solar system. “Now spill, where are you driving us?”

“I found a tent and camping supplies in the back of the Jeep yesterday when I grabbed our bags. Must be included in the rental. We can camp in the nature preserve outside of town.”

Not surprisingly, the idea of roughing it seemed more appealing than it had the other day. The Molina family had located them at the Palm Inn despite the fact that they’d registered as Mr. and Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Even if they could find a room in another hotel, which was doubtful, it wouldn’t be long before Sarah’s family knew exactly where they were. And this time they wouldn’t stop at taking incriminating photos of her and Devin getting down and dirty.

While he drove, she grabbed her tablet from the glove compartment, pulled up the Maltese Security encrypted messaging system, and began typing.

Carlos, I need a GPS track put on Sarah Molina
’
s cell. The number
’
s in the file.

She hit enter and waited. If she knew their tech guru, he
’
d be glued to a screen somewhere. A notification beeped a few seconds later.

Consider it done.

Ryder laid the tablet in her lap. “Carlos is putting a track on Sarah
’
s cell phone. That
’
ll give us her coordinates, as long as she hasn
’
t disabled the GPS or turned off her phone.”

“It’ll be on in the morning.” Devin sounded sure.

Ryder hiked a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Her mother is in an assisted living center in Harbor City. She calls her every morning at nine sharp. Everyone on the executive level at Dylan’s Department Store knew better than to buzz George’s office between nine and nine-thirty.”

Finally a break. Even with her family connections, Sarah wouldn’t be able to hide out on the tiny island much longer. “I’ll let ‘Los know.” Ryder’s thumbs flew across the screen as she texted the update to Carlos. “We only have forty-eight hours until George has to open the books to MultiCorp.”

“We’ll find her.” His firm tone didn’t leave room for doubt.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. His right cheekbone had turned the same shade of purple as a fresh eggplant. “I hope there’s a first aid kit in the back, because you
’
re going to need some ice packs tonight.”

He cracked a smile with only the smallest of grimaces. “You’re not looking so hot yourself, sweetheart.”

Her responding wry chuckle caught on the island breeze as they passed the hotel and continued west, heading toward the coast. She didn’t even have to glance in the rearview mirror to know he was right. She snickered softly. Sylvie and Drea were always on her to wear more color…but she highly doubted this was what they had in mind.

Devin pulled off the highway at the sign for the Andol Nature Preserve. The road was a lot bumpier than the highway, jostling her as she fought to hold herself still so her protesting muscles wouldn’t scream as loud. They passed hikers weighed down with backpacks and reusable water bottles who were heading deeper inland. Pop-up tents in various shades of blue dotted the landscape like blueberries in a muffin.

“The preserve is a popular spot,” Devin said. “No better place to hide than in plain sight.”

“Good plan.”

“Wait, you’re not biting my head off for making an executive decision?” He shifted into a lower gear as the road hit a five percent incline. “Did that guy whack you in the head or something?”

“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes.

About five miles down the road, an outcropping of trees appeared on the right. A few miles later, one of the island’s ubiquitous rock walls ran along the left side of the road, a few yards in.

Devin pulled off and parked the Jeep behind the wall. “Figured we could hump it back to the trees to spend the night. They’re looking for a hot pink Jeep, not a small tent.”

“It’s not my idea of fun, but it’s better than dealing with the Molinas’ muscle before we get a chance to patch ourselves up.”

Before she could grab any of the supplies out of the back, Devin had gathered them. He had so many bags he looked like a pack mule walking on its hind legs.

She sidled up to him. “Give me some of that.”

“No. You’re banged up.”

“Like you’re not.” She held out her hand. “Give.”

With great reluctance, he handed over the sleeping bag and the first aid kit, keeping the tent and assorted gear for himself. Rolling her eyes, she turned and headed back toward the trees. Walking down the road as the first stars appeared wasn’t the best of options, but it sure as hell beat walking in the high grass and leaving a trail of bent greenery straight to their campsite.

Thankfully, the small pop-up tent assembled with a minimum of fuss, and within fifteen minutes, they were inside tending to their wounds.

Using the chrome camping coffee pot as a mirror, she swiped her face with a sterile wipe before dabbing antiseptic on the scrapes. The bruise looked a garish purple reflected in the funhouse mirror of the metal, but she doubted it would look any better in a real mirror.

Devin groaned behind her as he tried to pull his shirt over his head instead of unbuttoning it all the way.

“Here, let me help.” She shuffled over on her knees.

He brushed her away. “I can manage.”

He lifted his arms again and his face lost a shade or two of color.

“Not so much, Mr. Tough Guy. You can’t even get your shirt off. Now shut up and let me help.”

She undid his buttons as he sat cross legged, the light from the propane lantern glinting off her gold rope bracelet, and pushed the linen material away from his chest. Puce yellow, pea green, and a funky shade of darkest blue clashed with the tattoo panorama across his muscular midsection. She traced her fingers down his ribs. He’d promised her nothing was broken, but she wouldn’t put it past him to lie about it.

Three-fourths of the way down the gnarly bruise, he grabbed her hand. “I’m fine.”

She cracked a rapid-cold pack and held it to the bruise. “Did you get the license plate of the Mack truck that hit you?”

“You’re such a comedian.” He turned away and rubbed the back of his head, revealing a patchwork of angry red slashes across his back and rough-looking gashes where his knuckles had connected with the thugs’ hard bones. “You can have the sleeping bag, I’ll just—”

“Not so fast.” She gripped his forearm and the skin-to-skin contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. “You’ve got cuts and scrapes all over you.”

She ignored his grumbling and started with his knuckles before moving on to his face, smoothing her hands over his five o’clock shadow and feeling for tenderness. His skin heated beneath her touch and the pulse in his neck jumped. By the time she was caring for the one-inch cut on his cheekbone, the ache in her hip had been replaced by one between her thighs. God, she’d make the world’s worst Florence Nightingale, if she kept getting all worked up while dotting a guy’s face with Neosporin.

Her sanity couldn’t take much more, so she started to hum an old song her mom used to sing to her whenever she’d woken up with a nightmare. Devin jerked under her touch.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No.” None of the light, teasing tone from earlier remained. Instead, his deep voice sounded hollow. “It’s the song.”

Something in the aching emptiness of his tone pulled at Ryder. “You know it?”

“It was my brother’s favorite when he was a little kid. He used to sing it every day just to drive me nuts.” His voice broke. “Now he can’t even remember the name of it.”

She digested that for a few moments, hurting for Devin. “What happened?” she asked softly.

“I failed at the most important job every big brother has—to protect your younger siblings. I almost killed him.” He paused. “I wonder sometimes if it wouldn’t be better if I had. James was one of those fifteen year-olds you read about who are already going to college. He was halfway through earning his BA in physics when he came home to visit.”

Devin stared out at the starry sky through the circular mesh window in the roof of the tent, but the darkness in his eyes extinguished the starlight that should have been reflected there.

“A bunch of us used to drive down to Waterburg to drag race the locals. It was a great way for stupid twenty-somethings with too much time and money on their hands to blow off steam. James had never been, so it seemed like the perfect brother-bonding time when he came home for spring break, plus it got him away from Dad, who was always pressuring him not to take a minute away from school. Most of the time, the police would break it up before we’d been there for long, but not always. When the cops arrived that night, it was too late. My cherry red BMW roadster was overturned off the side of the road, with my brother and me hanging upside down. The car I was racing against, a Mustang, had gone head-to-head with a tree and lost. Badly.”

The back of Ryder’s throat tightened and she reached for a strand of hair. But this time the smooth feel of it wrapping around her fingers as she twisted did little to alleviate the anxiety churning her insides into mush.

Devin white-knuckled the steering wheel and went on, “I crawled out of the Beemer with a few superficial scratches. The kid in the other car wasn’t as lucky. He
’
d gone straight through his windshield and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

Ryder actually remembered the accident. The kid who died was from their neighborhood. Richie Vivier. He’d been a few years ahead of her in school. She hadn’t known him well, but he’d been on the football team with her brother, Tony. The night of the accident, their father had come home after working the scene, hugged all of the kids, and locked himself in the den for the night. He’d played Otis Redding and gotten stone-cold drunk.

“There was an investigation, but no charges were ever filed,” Devin said, each word more painful to hear than the last. “The other driver’s family filed a civil complaint but dropped it a few months after they received an anonymous cash donation. My dad paid half a million dollars to hush the whole thing up.”

Ryder blinked. Jesus.

“One kid died, I walked away with scratches, but only a shadow version of James got out of that car.” His voice wavered on the last word but he took a deep breath and continued. “He suffered permanent brain damage and lives in a resident care facility. He had a genius level IQ and now he has no fucking clue how to work a TV remote control. I did that to him. It was my fault.”

A bone-deep ache for him wracked Ryder. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but Devin was clearly a man barely hanging on. She’d grown up in a family of cops, tough men who refused to admit their own pain or wanted others acknowledging it. Touching Devin might be just the thing that would push him over the edge, so she curled her fingers around the gold blessing bracelet that matched his.

“I killed one kid and ruined another.” Devin’s voice strengthened, but beneath the volume lay an ocean of pain. “And yeah, I walked away with only a couple of bruises, but there’s not a day when I don’t pay for it. Not a single fucking day. But obviously I’m too stupid to have learned my lesson. I should have been watching out for you today. There’s no way in hell I should have let you go gladiator against two thugs. I almost got you killed today and that is not acceptable.”

…

Devin’s throat closed around a lump of blame and regret he could never fully banish. Raw and angry, he wanted to fight back against the disappointment and shame, but he couldn’t drown it in alcohol or beat it away with a punching bag. God knew he’d tried both already. The guilt always returned every time he cracked open his eyelids with the morning sun.

“Today was
not
your fault, Devin. You didn’t lead me into anything. It was
my
plan. And if you recall, I ran in front of you, not behind you. Anyway, I would have liked to have seen you try to stop me.” The pity in her dark brown eyes nearly undid him.