All the Wrong Moves (20 page)

Kind of hard to carry on a conversation while staring at the opposite wall, but I managed.

“I’ll call my insurance company to tell them about the Bronco and arrange a rental car to take us both home tomorrow. Be right back.”

I could recite a long list of things I dislike about my present occupation. One of the things I
love
is the mega-huge USAA Insurance Company that caters exclusively to military members and their families. When someone clued me in to the San Antonio-based company, I got them to agree to cover me, the meager personal possessions I’d salvaged from my marriage and the Bronco.

After one call to a USAA claims adjuster and one to Enterprise Rent-A-Car, I had a compact waiting for me at a north Tucson location. The rental office only stayed open until seven P.M., so I arranged to have them pick me up at the hospital in a half hour.

That done, I hit the ladies’ room. The first glimpse in the mirrors produced a shriek. No wonder the ER doc had insisted on taking my vitals! I looked like a cross between a grave digger and one of his clients.

I washed the worst of the grime and dried blood off my face, hands and arms before digging in my rescued tote. Fishing out a comb, I gritted my teeth and did battle with my helmet of tangles. My eyes were watering by the time I threw the comb back in the tote and found my lip gloss. Amazing what a swipe or two of Georgia Peach can do to an otherwise scratched and colorless face.

When I ventured into Mitch’s room again, his head was back and his hazel eyes were fuzzy. I studiously avoided looking at the slow, dark drip as the nurse informed me she’d administered the painkillers the doctor had prescribed.

“You get some sleep,” I told Mitch. “I’ve got to pick up the rental car and find a place to stay tonight. Then I’ll be back to check up on you.”

“There’s a Holiday Inn Express just across the street,” the RN put in helpfully. “They give a discount to folks with family members in the hospital.”

“If you have time,” Mitch murmured, his voice already heavy and slow, “stop at a Walmart or Academy Sports. I could use some sweats for the drive home.”

So could I! My tunic and crops were hitting the Dumpster the moment they came off.

“I’ll take care of it,” I promised, leaning down to brush my lips over his. “See you in a couple hours.”

He raised his good arm and snagged mine. I could see him trying to fight the painkiller’s wallop.

“We need to talk about what happened, Samantha.”

“We will. Later. Get some sleep.”

I’D been operating on adrenaline to that point. Aside from my small meltdown in the state trooper’s cruiser, I hadn’t really stopped to think about the terrifying experience we’d gone through.

I had plenty of time to do just that while I picked up the rental, made a stop at Walmart and checked into the Holiday Inn Express. Once in my room, I dumped the plastic shopping bags and headed straight for the shower.

With hot water needling into my upturned face and now-aching body, I made myself review the entire sequence of events. From the moment I noticed the black SUV in the rearview mirror to the crash to the shoot-out and explosion.

In retrospect, I saw the hit had been well planned and executed. The bastard had probably tailed us out of Tucson. Maybe all the way from El Paso, although I doubted that. Surely I would have noticed him somewhere along that wide open stretch of highway.

No, he had to have picked us up here in Tucson and followed us out of the city. He’d hung back until we approached the curve in the road, timing his move to send us off the bridge and into the gully. Then he’d come armed to finish us off.

Why?

That question nagged at me as I toweled off and changed into the clean underwear and sweats I’d purchased at Walmart.

Why here? Why now?

If a stone-cold killer wanted to get rid of either Mitch or me, why not do it in El Paso or out at Dry Springs? What did we now know that made us targets?

The only new factor in the equation that I could discern was our unannounced visit to B&R. But the FBI had been there, too. They’d interviewed Roger Carlisle. They’d grilled Joy Bennett. Mitch and I hadn’t picked up anything significant from either one except . . .

A sudden frisson rippled down my spine. Gulping, I remembered Mitch saying he was going to dig into Carlisle’s background on our return to El Paso.

Carlisle, who’d had a supposedly casual conversation at a bar with Nicolas Sloan.

Carlisle, who’d introduced Sloan to Joy Bennett.

Carlisle, who Joy assumed had told the FBI about his tenuous connection to her lover.

Didn’t take a genius to make the next leap. With blazing clarity, I remembered the call I’d received when we’d stopped for lunch. The number I hadn’t recognized. The quiet clicks on the other end.

As clear as a bell, I recalled the 911 operator saying they could get a fix on our location from my cell phone. If 911 could, so could Carlisle. Or Sloan.

Be interesting as hell to see who Carlisle had contacted after we left his office. Paul Donati and company could check that out.

I hurried back to the hospital, anxious to discuss my thinking with Mitch, but he was out cold. I sat with him until the hall lights dimmed and that soft, beeping stillness unique to hospitals descended.

Not until I’d called it quits for the night and started across the street to the hotel did another thought occur to me. Neither Carlisle nor Sloan could know
we
knew they’d had direct contract. The only link between them—and us—was Joy Bennett.

Which could make her their accomplice.

Or as much a target as Mitch or me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I argued with myself for most of the drive to Bennett’s house.

She wasn’t my responsibility. I didn’t owe her so much as a phone call. She’d made her bed, literally and figuratively. Let her sleep in it.

The problem was, I identified with the woman. Not her short, stocky figure, I hasten to say. Or—God forbid!—her beetle brows. But like Joy, I’d let a man make a fool of me. Charlie happened to be my husband at the time, not my lover, but the end result was the same.

Added to that was this gut feeling that Joy might be next on the hit list. Someone needed to warn her, so I’d appointed myself as messenger.

I was just a few blocks away from her house when my cell phone rang. Goosey now over the possibility it had been used to track Mitch and me earlier today, I double-checked the Caller ID screen. I recognized the El Paso area code but not the number. I hesitated, fingering the phone for a long moment before answering.

“Lieutenant Spade.”

“This is Paul Donati,” a very angry-sounding male barked into my ear. “What the hell is it going to take to keep you out of my business?”

“Excuse me. It’s my business, too. Or should I just shrug aside the fact that someone torched my lab and ran Mitch and me off the road?”

“You wouldn’t have
been
run off the road if you’d stayed in El Paso and let us work this.”

Hard to argue with that.

“I just called Mitch at the hospital,” Donati informed me, still steaming. “He was too groggy to talk.”

“They gave him some powerful painkillers. He’s out for the count. Talk to me instead.”

“I’ll wait for Mitch to . . .”

My knuckles turned white where I gripped the phone. What did I have to do to gain entree into their friggin’ club?

“Talk to me, dammit! I’m as much a part of this investigation as you or Mitch.”

Phone to my ear, I waited through a short but speaking silence. Donati broke it finally, his reluctance audible in every syllable.

“We ID’ed the man Mitch shot this afternoon. His name is Edward Granger, although he’s used a number of aliases over the years.”

“Was one of them Nicolas Sloan?”

“Yes.”

I wondered how The Brow would react to discovering she’d jumped into the sack with a cold-blooded killer. That would certainly put a damper on
my
extracurricular activities for the foreseeable future.

“Look,” Donati said, breaking into my thoughts, “I can’t go into more detail over an open line. Just tell Mitch I’ll be up to see him in the morning.”

“Before you come, how about checking calls made to and from Roger Carlisle’s office at B&R Systems after eleven this morning?”

“Carlisle? Why?”

I turned his question around. “Did Carlisle tell you he knew Granger-slash-Sloan?”

“No. Who says he did?”

“Joy Bennett.”

“Why didn’t she tell
us
that?”

“Maybe it slipped her mind while you were working her over with a rubber hose.”

A pained note came into his voice. “For the record, we don’t use rubber hoses on women. Chinese water torture works better with females.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You should. You keep messing in my business, Lieutenant, and you’ll move to the top of my torture list.”

He hung up before I’d worked up the nerve to mention that I was about to mess a tad more.

I tucked the phone inside my tote, debating whether I should turn around and scuttle back to the hotel like a good little girl. Donati had sounded half serious with that torture threat.

Then there was my boss. Dr. J, too, had strongly suggested I back off. The fact that I’d helped bring down a killer might win me some brownie points with him, though. If I left it there.

On the other side of the equation was Joy Bennett and my growing conviction she was as much a victim in this whole mess as John Armstrong Sr. Granger-slash-Sloan had destroyed her life with almost as much finality as he’d tried to destroy Mitch’s and mine. She needed to be told about her former lover, and that wasn’t the kind of thing you dropped on a gal over the phone.

Or so I rationalized as I turned onto her block just in time to see a white sedan backing down her driveway. The sedan jerked to a halt halfway to the street. I did the same two houses away. Her husband, I thought as a male almost as short and stocky as The Brow pushed out of the car. I remembered Bennett telling us he worked nights.

Mr. Brow left the car door open and the headlights piercing the night while he marched back to the two-story adobe. The front door was yanked open before he reached it. Joy stood illuminated in the backlight, her stumpy figure framed against the antique oak coat rack. She gripped the door as her husband launched into a heated monologue, stabbing the air between them with a forefinger.

She obviously didn’t care for whatever he had to say. The door slammed in his face a moment later and he stomped back to his car. Tires screeching, he peeled down the drive and whipped onto the otherwise quiet street.

Probably not the best time for me to come calling.

Lips pursed, I debated the matter again before killing the engine. I left the rental parked where it was and walked the short half block to Bennett’s house.

She yanked the door open again in response to my knock. Her face was savage with fury, and the golf club gripped in her upraised fist had me taking a quick step back.

“I swear to God, I’ll knock you from here to . . . !”

She cut off in mid-shout. Chest heaving, she lowered the club and skewered me with a furious glare.

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m all talked out. I’m all
yelled
out. Go away.”

She tried to slam the door. Keeping a wary eye on the club, I blocked the door with my foot and blurted out what I knew would grab her instant attention.

“Nick Sloan is dead.”

The woman went rigid with shock. In the bright foyer light, I could see the furious red leach out of her cheeks.

“Wh-What did you say?”

“He ran Agent Mitchell and me off the road this afternoon, then used us for target practice. Mitch’s aim was better.”

“My God!”

She staggered back a few paces. I followed, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t intend to leave until I got some answers.

“Did you call Nick Sloan this morning, Joy? Did you tell him that Agent Mitchell and I had been by to see you?”

“No! I haven’t seen or talked to him in weeks!”

I believed her. No one could feign that shocked white face and the shaking hand she shoved through her cropped hair.

“Is he . . . ?” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Is he really dead?”

I was in no mood for nice. “Last I saw of him, he was missing the top half of his skull and being loaded into a body bag. So, yeah, I’d say he’s dead.”

She dropped the club and let it clatter into the coat rack. Slumping against the foyer wall, she covered her face with her hands. I didn’t know whether she was crying for herself or her lover. Both probably.

“Joy, listen to me. I need to know. Did you tell anyone Agent Mitchell and I had come by to see you?”

“My . . . My husband.” She hiccuped, dropping her hands. “When he . . . got up.”

She lifted a tear-ravaged face. The bitterness and despair that seeped into her expression were painful to watch.

“Your visit this morning sparked a whole new round of arguing. Brian and I have been going at it all day. You just missed him,” she added. “He left for work right before you got here.”

“Anyone else? Did you tell anyone else?”

“My boss. Former boss,” she amended with that awful, aching bitterness.

“You talked to Carlisle?”

“I called him,” she said, obviously confused by my sudden, sharp tone. “I wanted to know why he hadn’t told you or the FBI that he knew Nick.”

“What did he say?”

“That he
didn’t
know Nick. He insisted they hadn’t exchanged more than a half dozen words that night at the Chamber of Commerce function. I guess . . . I guess a brief contact like that isn’t all that important.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

My vehemence startled her. Blinking, she stared at me.

“Don’t you see?” I pressed urgently. “You’re the only person who can link Carlisle to Sloan. My guess is he probably freaked out when you said you’d mentioned that link to Mitch and me. That’s why he sent Sloan to silence us. Why he might try to silence you.”