Watch Your Back, Page 3

Gratefully, she didn’t see anyone lurking. What she did see was a sign pointing to the handicapped entrance, but at the speed she walked these days, getting there would take her ten times longer than just dealing with the damn stairs. She’d be exposed far longer that way.

  Plus, I’m late. Of course. Everything took her so much longer since she’d been wounded on the courthouse steps, the day the jury had returned the verdict in a controversial murder trial. She’d expected guarding the prosecutor to be dangerous. She hadn’t expected to wake up in ICU with a bullet hole in her leg. Three months later she was still struggling to find normality. Whatever the hell that is.

  Tensing every muscle, she grabbed the rail and hoisted her body up the stairs as fast as she could. When she got to the landing, she used her momentum to keep moving forward. A few more awkward steps put her under the porch gable. She leaned against one of the supports, out of sight of the street. She needed the cover to . . . recover.

  Because she was breathing like she’d run a marathon instead of having climbed four tiny stairs, goddammit. She was sweating, trembling. And then came the pain, shooting up her hip and down her leg. Gritting her teeth, she clenched one hand into an impotent fist and, with the other, held on to the cane for dear life, riding the excruciating wave until the worst of it passed. The fury that simmered at the back of her mind exploded, sparked by frustration and pain.

  Fuck you, Marina Craig. Like it wasn’t bad enough that the little bitch’s bullet had almost killed her? Here she was, crawling up stairs like a . . . cripple.

  Cripple. It wasn’t the PC term and Stevie didn’t care. It was her body. Her ruined leg. I can use whatever goddamned word I want to use.

  Stop it. The voice of reason sliced through her silent, childish tirade. You’re better, and every day you do more. At least you’re alive. That last one always got her attention.

  She’d lived. Others hadn’t been so lucky. Including Marina Craig. Because after Marina’s bullet had lodged in her leg, Stevie had returned fire. Marina was dead before she hit the courthouse steps. The girl had only been sixteen years old.

  But she’d also been a stone-cold killer who’d have loved nothing better than to murder every last person gathered in front of the courthouse that day. Marina had been furious at the judicial system that had ‘persecuted’ her lover, an eighteen-year-old white supremacist convicted of a double homicide. She’d also been well armed, her modified Glock capable of creating mass casualties.

  I did the right thing. I saved lives, including my own. I’m alive.

  And she was grateful for that. Truly. But she was also tired of being . . . less than she’d been before. Soon. Just a little more time, a little more rehab. Soon she’d be back to normal.

  ‘And everything will be fine,’ she whispered aloud. ‘It’ll all be fine.’

  It had to be true, because she’d never lied to her daughter.

  ‘Everything will be fine’ was what she’d whispered in Cordelia’s ear twelve hours before as she’d held her, rocking them both until her daughter’s shudders stilled. It was what she whispered every night that Cordelia woke from a nightmare. Which, thankfully, seemed to be happening less frequently. Those sessions with the child psychologist were finally bearing fruit.

  Soon Cordy would be back to normal, too. And everything will finally be fine again.

  Because everything sure as hell wasn’t fine now. How long had it been since they’d been normal? How long had it been since her daughter had slept through the night?

  The answer stung. It had been a year. An entire year. The last time we were normal was when I stood here. On this very spot.

  It had been only a few weeks after her last annual lunch with Emma that everything went to hell in a hand basket, courtesy of Silas Dandridge, retired homicide detective. Her old partner. Stevie had considered him her mentor, her friend. She’d trusted him to watch her back. She’d trusted him with her child.

  Instead, he’d threatened Cordelia, shoved a gun into her ribs. He’d betrayed her trust. He’d betrayed them all. So fuck you, too, Silas Dandridge. I hope you’re finding hell to your liking.

  It was because of Silas that Stevie was hiding behind a damn post this very moment, worrying that one of his old clients – or even worse, one of his old accomplices – was out there, waiting to shut her up for good. Which pissed her off. But at least I can take care of myself.

  Her daughter was a different story. Cordelia was only seven years old. Silas was her daughter’s nightmare, a nightmare that was finally fading.

  As had Stevie’s trembling. But she was still on edge, the events of the week having a cumulative effect. She couldn’t go into the restaurant a bundle of nerves. Emma would notice. Psychologists tended to be annoyingly observant about things like that.

  Gathering herself together, she pushed the restaurant door open, determined not to waste this time with Emma, who’d seen her through Paul’s death in a way no one else could have.

  For seven years, Stevie had left this lunch feeling better. Renewed. She wasn’t sure ‘feeling better’ was a reasonable expectation today. She’d settle for a little peace.

  Saturday, March 15, 2.02 P.M.

  Well, shit. Passing the restaurant, Henderson turned right at the end of the block, watching Stevie Mazzetti in the rearview mirror, seeing her just as she entered the building.

  The only things Robinette had gotten right were the day and the restaurant. All of the boss’s other information was dead wrong.

  Mazzetti wasn’t supposed to arrive until three, but there she was, a full hour early. Had she arrived at three, she would be dead. Because I would have been set up on the roof of the building across the street, waiting to pick her off as she’d climbed the stairs.

  Had Mazzetti been on time, killing her would have been the easiest job ever assigned in the history of mankind. The cop had taken the better part of a minute to climb the stairs. She’d been a damn fish in a barrel.

  But no. She was early. A fucking hour early.

  Henderson still might have been on time to set up on the roof before her arrival, but double-checking the whereabouts of her daughter had taken longer than it should have, as well. Because little Cordelia wasn’t at ballet class as Robinette had promised. She and her aunt had ended up at a destination a good twenty minutes farther away.

  So technically I’m still early, but I’m still too late. Blaming failure on Robinette’s bad information was an exercise in futility. Henderson had learned that lesson the hard way, the memory a sour one. Dammit. The car swerved a little. Henderson glanced at the steering wheel in surprise. My hands are shaking. This assignment had become more stressful than anticipated. A drink would settle the shakes.

  Not until you’re finished. Celebrate when you’re finished. Plan now. Celebrate later.

  Henderson parked the white rental Camry behind the building across from the restaurant. A morning scouting trip had identified this building as providing the best angle. And should anyone see me, they’ll tell the cops they saw a white Camry – the same make and model that yesterday’s would-be assassin escaped in after taking a shot at Mazzetti. Yesterday’s assassin would be blamed, diverting any suspicion from Robinette. Or from me, of course.

  Anticipation was a palpable presence in the air. It was time to get to work. Time to avenge the murder of Levi Robinette. It was time to give Robbie some long-overdue peace.

  Chapter Two

  Hunt Valley, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 2.05 P.M.

  Daffodils. The sight of them lining the drive up to the farm made Clay Maynard think of soldiers at attention. He didn’t care much for flowers himself, but he had to appreciate the hardiness of the little yellow blooms. It was still so cold he could see his breath, but the daffodils didn’t seem bothered.

  His mother had always loved her daffodils. The memory of her tending her flowers was one of his favorites, one that he summoned when things got too dark. Today was one of those days.

  March 15. The day S
tevie Mazzetti’s husband and son had been murdered. The day her life had been ripped apart by the event that, to this day, left her too damaged to love anyone.

  To love anyone? Or just you?

  He drew a quiet breath, pushing the thoughts from his mind. Pushing Stevie from his mind. Or at least to the corner. He’d tried to push her all the way out, many times. He’d given up. She didn’t want him, but, damn his soul, he still wanted her. He had since he’d laid eyes on her the first time, a dedicated cop on the trail of a killer. A fierce mother protecting her little girl.

  He’d seen her heartbroken and resolved. He’d seen her aroused . . . by me . . . and damn unhappy about it. He wanted her happy about it, wanted to be the man to make her forget the husband she’d lost. Wanted to be the man she started over with.

  He wanted her to be the one he started over with.

  A man doesn’t always get what he wants. Clay had lost track of the number of times his father had uttered those words. As usual, his dad was right.

  At least Clay had maintained his dignity after she’d kicked him to the curb in December. He hadn’t driven by her house, not even once, not even to make sure she was all right. As far as the rest of the world knew, Clay had walked away and had moved on. Maybe, someday, he would.

  All of a sudden there was a wide splash of yellow as the daffodils exploded from the orderly border along the road to a big field.

  His mom would have loved the sight of so much yellow. He decided he’d break early this afternoon and lay some daffodils on her grave. She’d have liked that. And it would make his dad happy, too. God knew he hadn’t given the old man much attention lately. Maybe he’d head out to the Eastern Shore tonight, take his dad out for dinner.

  A whistle had Clay looking right to where Alec Vaughn, his IT tech, stared out the window, wide-eyed at the sight of two new barns and a dozen horses grazing in newly fenced pastures.

  ‘Wow,’ Alec breathed. ‘When Daphne makes up her mind, she doesn’t fool around.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  The farm and its newest additions belonged to Assistant State’s Attorney Daphne Montgomery, Clay’s friend and client. Daphne had a personal fortune she enjoyed as a result of her divorce from a very unhappy marriage. It had been a high price to pay, but now she could afford to do the work she loved and support the causes she believed in. Three months ago, Daphne had announced that she was adding to her ever-growing list of charities. This newest one was for kids who’d been victims of violent crime to interact with horses, teaching them to care for an animal, because giving them the opportunity to create a bond with another living creature seemed to help so many of them overcome their trauma. Clay didn’t get the allure of the four-legged beasts, but apparently a lot of other people did.

  ‘Daphne’s been receiving applications from all over the country,’ he told Alec. ‘Child protective services, law enforcement, desperate parents. So she moved up the timeline. The new barns went up last week. The inspector blessed them on Wednesday and the horses arrived Thursday. She wants to start the first group as soon as we get the place secure.’

  Thus, their presence at the farm. The private investigating side of Clay’s business solved issues once they’d already occurred. The security side identified potential vulnerabilities and put systems in place to keep those issues from happening. Surveillance systems and private security forces were Clay’s specialty.

  Daphne’s job with the prosecutor’s office left her vulnerable enough. Her wealth simply served to make her a bigger target. Now she’d be bringing children onto the property. Kids who’d already been traumatized were magnets for predators. Not going to happen on my watch.

  ‘I didn’t know the application was available,’ Alec said. ‘It wasn’t on the website when I was doing a security check on the server last night.’

  ‘She hasn’t developed a formal application, yet. She only made the one announcement on the local news a few months back. The broadcast got uploaded to the station’s website and emails have been flooding in to the TV station ever since. She let me read a few of them.’

  ‘And?’

  Clay blew out a breath. ‘And, they . . .’ Broke my heart. ‘They indicate a huge, unmet need. Kids who’ve been through years of counseling and still can’t . . . connect. Which, when I thought about it, really didn’t surprise me.’ Ten years in the Marine Corps and another ten in law enforcement had introduced him to countless children who’d been victims of violence.

  Including the young man sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. Thankfully, Alec had moved past his own trauma years before, but the experience hadn’t left him unaffected. Alec had developed a uniquely empathic insight into the pain and suffering of others. The kid saw emotions that people tried desperately to hide. Including mine.

  But even as uncomfortable as it made him personally, Clay had come to depend on that insight. Alec’s IT skills made acquiring information from online sources terrifyingly easy and his insight into particularly hard-to-read human sources had made the difference in a number of Clay’s investigations.

  The farm’s drive ended in front of the main barn, where half a dozen vehicles already formed a line. Parking behind the Chevy Suburban that belonged to Daphne’s son, Ford, Clay switched off the ignition. They had only a few hours of daylight left. It was time to get to work.

  ‘Daphne calls the new program “equine therapy”,’ Clay added with a sigh. ‘But what she calls “therapy”, I’m calling a security nightmare.’

  ‘“Nightmare” is a bit dramatic, isn’t it? We’re talking about little kids here, not al-Qaeda.’

  ‘We’re talking about kids, true. But we also have to clear the volunteers, the therapists, the horse trainers, and grooms. Even the parents and caregivers.’

  Alec’s nod was thoughtful. ‘I guess we do. That’s a lot of people.’

  ‘Hell, yeah, that’s a lot. Every person with a pulse has to be cleared – and watched.’ There might be real trouble, or claimed trouble. Too many people saw Daphne as a deep pocket for a lawsuit settlement. It was Clay’s job to protect her as well as every child under her care. ‘We have to watch for any risk of violence against the kids and against Daphne. I wouldn’t put it past the family members of some of the felons she’s prosecuted to try to get one of the volunteer positions just so they can get close enough to Daphne to get their revenge.’

  Daphne didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was in danger. Her fiancé got it, though. FBI Special Agent Joseph Carter had given Clay a very generous budget with which to keep her – and anyone she helped – safe.

  Clay didn’t have many true friends and Daphne was one of them. He would have taken this job for free. But he wasn’t stupid. If Carter was willing to give him a blank check, he’d sure as hell take it. He could keep his staff gainfully employed for quite some time. Jobs like this one were the bread and butter of a security specialist’s business. The PI side didn’t pay that well and the cases he was willing to take were few and far between. His people had to pay their rent.

  ‘I’ll make sure you can watch everyone everywhere on the property,’ Alec promised. ‘I’ll put a camera in every barn.’

  ‘Not just one. I want a camera in every stall in every barn. Every corner of every pasture. If a squirrel crosses the property line, I want to know.’

  ‘That’s a lot of work,’ Alec said doubtfully. ‘A lot more than I planned on. I didn’t order enough cameras. I’ll have to increase our order if you want to install that many. I can do that, of course, but it’ll take a few days to get them in. We can get started today with what we have.’

  ‘That sounds good. I’m estimating that this job will take at least four days, maybe longer. You’ll be working with DeMarco and Julliard.’

  Alec frowned. ‘I don’t remember meeting them.’

  ‘You haven’t. We haven’t done an installation of this magnitude since you joined the firm. They’ve done installation work for me before and I trust them. They�
�ll dig the trenches, lay the cables. Your role is to ensure every camera is connected to the network and operational. I’ll stay today to make sure everything gets started smoothly, then I’ll stop by once a day. Questions?’

  ‘None. I’ll get to work.’ Alec began unloading the cameras and storing them in the barn.

  Leaving him to the task, Clay took a moment to visually inspect the property. DeMarco was walking the perimeter of the round training area that Daphne called ‘the arena’. It always made Clay think of gladiators and lions, not children and horses, but whatever.

  Daphne herself was inside the arena, wearing a neon pink suit and holding the lead line of a big gray horse. She waved to him, then turned and blew a kiss to the man leaning against the fence. That Joseph Carter was here was no surprise. It would have been more of a shock if he hadn’t been. The Fed raised a hand in welcome and Clay headed his way.

  Then stumbled, his head whipping to stare at the minivan parked between the Fed’s Escalade and DeMarco’s muddy truck. It was Stevie’s minivan. Goddammit.

  Clay gritted his teeth and forced his feet to move. If she was here, he was leaving. But not until he’d gotten a glimpse of her. Just a glimpse. Because I’m that pathetic.

  He stopped next to Joseph, having walked the fifty feet to the fence without craning his head to search for the woman who wanted nothing to do with him. ‘Hey, Carter.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ Joseph said quietly. ‘It’s just Izzy and Cordelia.’

  Clay filled his lungs, felt the burn of the cold air, exhaled in a rush. Stevie’s sister and daughter. Not Stevie. This is good, he told himself forcefully. ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘Izzy’s taking the photos for the brochures,’ Joseph said. ‘Daphne’s got the fundraisers planned and hired Izzy to take the publicity photos and to cover the events themselves.’

  ‘I didn’t know Izzy was a professional photographer.’

  ‘She wasn’t. She lost her job with the department store in January. Photos are a hobby she’s trying to turn into a business until something else opens up.’