On the List, Page 2

  Voice trembling, her mom said, “My home is here.”

  “Okay, then stay here. Don’t let them chase you away. Maybe you could just stay inside for a few days.”

  Renata spent a few minutes engaging her mom in a non-work-related subject until she was sure the older woman was more at ease. Then she signed off and got to work. Not wanting to run into any more reporters herself, she waited until after-hours that night to leave the office, when only a skeleton crew was left to watch her progress out of the cubicled area to the front door.

  Not one of them said so much as a word to her.

  She was waiting for the elevator when Director Mulvihill came out of his office. Surprised that he was here so late, Renata was doubly surprised when Congressman Carl Cooper walked out behind him. Cooper was head of the government committee that had given S.A.F.E. its charter, and he was also under indictment for misuse of government funds. The two men conferred for a moment. Then Cooper looked up and spotted her. She’d never met the man, and he didn’t look friendly now.

  Flushing, Renata realized Cooper knew who she was. She was glad when the elevator doors opened and she could escape his glare.

  More down than she’d felt in years, Renata left the building with a cold feeling in her chest and an ache in the pit of her stomach.

  So when she hit the street—this part of the Loop being near deserted right after rush hour—she was trying to decide what she could do to make herself feel better. Dinner and a movie?

  More like takeout and a rental.

  “Agent Fox,” came a smooth voice from directly behind her, “can I buy you a drink?”

  Starting, she whipped around to face a dark-haired man who topped her by half a foot and had leather-encased shoulders broad enough to make her wary. Though she tried to mask the frisson of unease that rippled through her, she stepped back and put extra distance between them.

  “I don’t drink with men I don’t know. And how do you know who I am?”

  Ignoring the question, he smoothly said, “The name’s Gabriel Connor. Gabe. I thought we could talk about the City Sniper over a drink.”

  “A reporter?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m talked out on the subject.”

  But when she started to turn away, he grasped her arm. He didn’t hurt her, but he held her in a way that it would take some effort to free herself.

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Let go of me,” she said, turning her voice steely. “And don’t touch me again without my permission.”

  He grinned then, which softened his expression, and let go. Lights from the building revealed smile crinkles around long-lashed green eyes. His other features, topping a dark green cable-knit sweater and tan leather jacket, were more rugged; his square chin beard-stubbled. He was very attractive.

  “So what would it take to get that permission?” he asked softly.

  Was he really flirting with her? Ignoring the little flutter in her stomach, Renata shook her head and turned her back on him to go.

  As she started to walk away, however, he said, “I want you to know I believe you…”

  She slowed her step.

  “…and I want to help you prove Hawass wasn’t the shooter.”

  AGENT RENATA FOX turned to face him, her expression a mask of incredulity.

  Gabe stared, fascinated by her exotic beauty. Thick dark hair and high cheekbones indicative of a Native American ancestor warred with eyes that glowed like sapphires. Her nose was a narrow straight slash, but her full lips were curved, though she wasn’t actually smiling. She was wearing a blue wool suit—not a pants suit, but one with a skirt that showed long, shapely legs—and shoes with high heels and sling backs that were just to the left of sensible.

  “I don’t get it,” she said, her voice low and smooth like honey. “Why would a stranger want to help me? What’s in it for you?”

  “Does something have to be?”

  “I would say…yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people don’t offer to do things for other people out of the goodness of their hearts.”

  “I’m not people,” Gabe insisted. “Why don’t we talk about it over a drink.”

  He thought she was going to say no, but then her suspicious expression lightened just a hair and he figured something changed her mind.

  “A drink wouldn’t hurt anything,” she said. “Actually, I could use one after the day I’ve had.”

  Gabe let her take the lead and for a moment enjoyed the view from behind.

  She chose a bar on the first floor of a nearby hotel. The place was classy and dark. They slid into one of the booths near the window and gave the waitress their orders—a shiraz for her, a beer for him.

  She waited until the waitress was out of earshot before asking, “So who are you really, Gabe Connor?”

  If he told her the truth, that would be the end of the conversation. So he told her the part of the truth that he could share.

  “I run security for a club in the Wicker Park/Bucktown area.”

  “A security guard.”

  “No, the one who hires them. Maybe you’ve heard of it—Club Undercover.”

  Renata shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t do clubs.”

  In an effort to get her relaxed, Gabe told her a little about the club and how it combined dancing with performance art. All the while he wondered what Renata would think if he told her about his involvement with Team Undercover, as they jokingly called themselves. Under Gideon’s direction, he and the others helped out people in dangerous circumstances, when they had no one else to help them.

  The waitress returned with their drinks and Gabe told her to run a tab.

  “To the truth,” he said, lifting his beer. “And by the way, in addition to running security for the club, I’m also a patriotic American.”

  “Then you should be pleased with Muti Hawass’s death.”

  Gabe went still. “I would never wish death on someone who didn’t deserve it, who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  She blinked and something registered in her dark eyes. Then she shuttered any expression, asking, “How do you know he didn’t deserve to be shot?”

  “If you were comfortable with that, you wouldn’t have looked for another answer. An unpopular answer at that.”

  “Popularity contests never impressed me. And so far, neither have you.”

  She was impressing the hell out of him, though, Gabe thought. “You don’t believe I want to help you.”

  “I believe you have a reason for wanting to help me,” she said, pulling out her cell phone and playing with the keypad. “I just haven’t figured out why.”

  “Well, believe this. I’m good at getting information from all kinds of sources.”

  Though she didn’t look up from her cell phone, she lifted one delicate eyebrow. “So you’re a private investigator, as well?”

  “I’m a lot of things…or have been.” Suddenly annoyed that she was only giving him half her attention, he asked, “Do you need to do that right now?”

  “Check my messages? Yes.”

  Watching her long, slender fingers work the pad of the cell phone, Gabe wondered if she was going to make her calls right then and there. Why not? She’d already interrupted their conversation.

  But it seemed that she hadn’t lost a beat when she looked up and said, “You almost intrigue me.”

  A real multi-tasker…

  “Almost?” he repeated.

  “It comes down to this, Mr. Connor—”

  “Gabe,” he cut in to remind her.

  “Gabe, then. You’re a civilian.” She slid the cell back into the safety of her shoulder bag. “The City Sniper is government business.”

  “Justice is every American’s business.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “The problem is I don’t believe in justice.”

  “You don’t believe in justice or just the system?”

  “The concept sou
nds good, and sometimes the system works. But too often it doesn’t and criminals are never made to pay. So make a believer of me,” he challenged her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching into her pocket and producing a twenty-dollar bill. “I don’t see that you have anything to offer me.” She stood. “And even if you did, you would complicate things further. My life is too complicated as it is.” She slipped the money between their glasses. “Drink’s on me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Gabe said, not about to give up so easily. He slid his card toward her. “In case you change your mind.” He thought she might not bite, so he turned on the charm, giving her his best smile. “I’m available to take care of all your needs.”

  Seemingly unable to help herself, she allowed her features to relax in a smile that lit her from the inside out. Gabe stared, entranced.

  “All right,” Renata said, taking the card and slipping it into her purse. “I’ll keep it in case I have any needs that must be met.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  SO HE’D BE WAITING for her call, would he?

  Not knowing why she’d even picked up Gabe Connor’s card, Renata smiled wryly as she set off into the dark for home.

  Home was a Wabash Avenue building with shops on the first floor. The upper floors, formerly offices, had been converted to studio and one-bedroom apartments. The building catered mostly to students attending the half dozen colleges with downtown campuses. Though not exactly glamorous, her apartment was an affordable five-minute walk from work.

  As she crossed the street, Renata thought about the card burning a hole in the shoulder bag pressed between her arm and her side. Not to mention the intriguing man who had challenged her to take it.

  She couldn’t involve Gabe in S.A.F.E. business—she could only imagine what she’d pull down on her own head if she was so incautious. Mulvihill would probably find a way to use any variation from standard procedure against her, and she didn’t need any more ill will from his direction.

  As to her other, more personal needs…well, they could wait. Yes, she found Gabe Connor good-looking, but no, she didn’t need a distraction at this point in time.

  Turning onto Wabash, she closed her ears against the screech of metal on metal—wheels on tracks—as a train braked overhead.

  The one drawback to her living situation, probably the rationale for the rent being so reasonable, was the location of the El—the elevated rapid transit system that circled Chicago’s business district and gave the Loop its name. The century-old steel-and-wood structure ran overhead, straight down her street. Even inside her apartment, she could hear the constant clacking of running trains and the screech of brakes, no matter what the hour.

  Away from State Street and the theater district, her area was nearly deserted at night except for a handful of people coming and going from the nearby station. And so, as always an alert city girl, she kept watch on her surroundings.

  She didn’t miss a thing.

  Not the car inching along, its driver obviously hoping for a parking space to magically appear.

  Not the well-dressed woman who hung out on the corner, nervously glancing up the street, apparently waiting for a ride.

  Not the laughing trio of teenagers who swept down the opposite side of the street to disappear around the corner.

  With her doorway just ahead, she let down her guard long enough to imagine what it might be like to laugh with Gabe Connor like that.

  Just long enough to have someone come out of nowhere and dart at her from behind.

  Chapter Two

  Adrenaline surged through Renata, and the sound of her blood rushing through her ears muffled the slap-slap of feet against the cement sidewalk behind her. Before she could turn to face the person, cruel hands dug into her shoulders and shoved her into the closest recessed entrance to a shop.

  Gasping, she forced herself around and caught a flash of a knife.

  She reacted instantly, stomping her heel on the man’s foot hard enough to put it through flesh and possibly bone. Heavy leather stopped her from eliciting more than a surprised grunt from her attacker, but she followed up with an equally forceful hand, her shoe smacking into the face encased in a dark hoodie. No damage there, either, since he turned his head with the strike.

  Still, he spat, “Die, bitch!” in a dark, low voice, and she knew she had to get out of this and now to survive.

  If she didn’t throw up first…

  Somehow, she anticipated his knife and placed her shoulder bag between it and her body. The sharp weapon cut through the leather like butter, but the metal inside stopped the blade from slicing her open. Before he could recoup, she elbowed him hard, shoved her shoulder into his chest and freed herself from the doorway.

  Moving faster than she knew she could, Renata unzipped the side of her shoulder bag and withdrew her weapon.

  She could hardly breathe but she yelled, “Bullets trump blades!” and aimed the Glock at him. “Drop the knife.”

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” a man from the other side of the street asked. “I’m calling 911.”

  “Report a federal officer making an arrest needs backup!”

  Her assailant backed away and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she warned him, her forefinger trembling on the trigger.

  “You won’t shoot,” he returned in a hoarse whisper and continued backing off. “You’re still a virgin.” With that, he fled.

  Renata kept her weapon aimed, but he was weaving and there were people coming down the El steps and she wasn’t a good enough shot to be sure of herself. She couldn’t take a chance at missing her target and shooting an innocent bystander.

  Besides, she was still a virgin—she’d never shot a living thing and she wasn’t looking forward to losing that particular virginity.

  She thought of going after her attacker, but he whipped up the El steps and she knew she would never catch him. He would hop on the next train and disappear. Ironic that some crazy person chose to attack an officer of the law.

  “Are you all right?” the guy across the street shouted. “I made that call like you asked.”

  Hearing a siren in the distance, she said, “Thanks. Stick around—we’ll need your name and number and your statement for the report.”

  “Uh, no thanks, don’t have the time.” The good citizen slinked into the night.

  Blue light danced along the underpinnings of the rapid transit as a CPD squad barreled down Wabash and slowed as it approached her block. Slipping her gun back into the holster built into her purse, Renata stepped off the curb into the street and waved it down.

  Normally, federal agencies handled their own investigations when an agent was involved in a violent crime, but this wasn’t a normal situation, so she gave Officer Jules Jackson the report.

  “The assailant was about six feet in height, medium build, wearing black jeans and a hoodie. The hood was pulled up. His face was dark, but I think he was wearing makeup,” she said, examining the heel of her hand where she’d made contact. Something dark had rubbed off on her skin. “Some kind of camouflage.” Renata gave him all the details of the attack itself as she remembered them. “Just before he ran,” she concluded, “he said I wouldn’t shoot because I was a virgin.”

  “Sounds like he knows you. How would he know you’d never shot anyone before?”

  “Most people who own guns don’t shoot other people.” But she’d wondered, too.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little odd that a stranger picked you out by chance to knife to death? You’re sure you haven’t ticked off someone lately?” he prodded, his dark face intent. “Maybe some scumbag you’ve been investigating on one of your cases?”

  Thinking of the brouhaha in the media, she said, “Not anyone who would want to see me dead. At least I hope not.”

  But once she considered the possibility, the sharp talons of suspicion grabbed her and wouldn’t let g
o.

  Exhausted, Renata finished giving her statement, got a copy of the report and bade Officer Jackson a good night. Once in her apartment, she realized she was too wired to eat or sleep and began replaying the incident in her mind. She couldn’t believe the assailant had caught her so off guard.

  Of course, she’d never been attacked before…

  A virgin…

  How had he known?

  So what if her attacker knew her or of her…why did he want her dead?

  Only one thought came to her.

  RENATA TESTED her new theory first thing the next morning, after sneaking into the S.A.F.E. offices via the loading dock door off the alley to avoid more reporters.

  “The attack convinces me I was right about Hawass,” she told her boss. “The only thing that makes sense is that the real shooter or one of his associates is trying to make sure I don’t dig deeper.”

  “Your paranoia knows no bounds, Fox.”

  Ensconced behind his desk, his expression a combination of disbelief and disgust, Director Elliott Mulvihill stared at her through designer silver-rimmed glasses that complemented a gray designer suit. The director was probably only in his mid-fifties, but too much responsibility and early loss of hair—he was already half-bald—made him appear ten years older, despite the trendy ware. Or maybe his first wife and kids leaving him because of the job had done it. Or so went office gossip.

  “Or is this a ploy…?” he asked. “This supposed attack.”

  “I have the police report. Would you like to see it?”

  “Does it contain names and numbers of witnesses?”

  Renata gaped at him.

  “I thought not,” he muttered, sounding satisfied.

  Did he really believe she’d made up the whole thing?

  Would he use the incident against her instead of protecting her? The only witness had scurried away. Even so, she hadn’t thought she would lack support at her own agency.

  This is what came from bucking the system.

  “I suppose you have reason to believe you’re under attack,” Mulvihill said. “So my advice to you is watch your back.” He rose and from the end of his desk lifted a fat stack of loose papers which he held out to her. “In the meantime, I have myriad reports of possible terrorist threats I need analyzed. You’re the perfect person for the job.”