Dark of Night (9 page)

“He'll still be here tomorrow,” he pointed out.

But she shook her head. “No. We're here now. And I don't want to tempt fate. Will you do me a favor and—”

“Absolutely,” he cut her off. “Whatever you need.”

She had to smile at that. “One of these days, you're going to say that, and you'll find yourself repaving my driveway.”

“With a smile on my face, and a song in my heart,” Dave told her. He was dead serious, too. “What do you need me to do right now?” He figured it out before she could answer. “Distract Maureen.”

Sophia nodded. “I don't want to do this in front of her,” she said. “I'm sure I'm going to do it wrong; I mean, I haven't read Miss Manners recently, so I don't know the correct etiquette for a reunion with a long-lost father.”

Dave smiled as she'd hoped he would. “Consider it done,” he promised.

And then, because he was so solidly Dave, she dared to ask for more. “Do you think you can keep her out of the room and still… come in with me?”

“You want me in there?” he asked, as if he didn't quite believe her.

“Very much,” she whispered.

He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then I'm there,” he said, as if it were a given, written in stone.

“She's extremely …” Sophia searched for the right word.

“Domineering?” Dave volunteered. “Pushy? Bossy … ?”

“I was going to say
bitchy,
” she told him. “Entitled and a little mean.”

“Frightened,” Dave countered, “because her little brother, whom she loves, really is dying this time.”

He was right. The nurse had told Sophia that her father was going to be moved into their facility for hospice care in the morning. “That, too,” she admitted.

He kissed her—a sweet brush of his lips against hers. “Nurses, bless their souls, have expert level ratings when it comes to the world's Aunt Maureens. Give me about twenty seconds to delegate, and I've got your back.”

“Thank you,” Sophia told him, and he kissed her again.

“Anytime.”

He released her, and she turned to check her hair in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were red and swollen and most of her makeup had been washed away.

“You look beautiful,” Dave told her—another absolute. “Let's do this.”

“I'm ready,” she said, although she wasn't quite sure she meant it.

But when Dave held out his hand, and she took it?

She was.

Someone had definitely been in Tess and Nash's apartment.

Decker went through the place carefully, but found no sign of robbery, no sign even that the place had been searched. Which didn't mean it hadn't been. It just meant that whoever had done the job had chosen a covert method—as opposed to a toss-and-run.

He probably should have used his secure satellite phone to call for backup, except there wasn't anyone to call. Jules, Sam, and Alyssa were all precisely where he wanted them to be—guarding the safe house, where they'd moved Nash and Tess yesterday morning. The last thing Decker needed was for any of them to leave their posts.

Besides, what would he say?
Nothing's been moved. Nothing big, that is. But I'm pretty sure I sense a molecular disturbance. Someone—besides me—has been in this apartment, sometime in the last week, moving the air around.

Back in the hospital, Decker had spoken to Nash only briefly about the men who'd tried to blackmail and then murder him. The conversation had been short not only because Nash was easily exhausted, but because he honestly didn't know much about them. He believed they were somehow connected to the Agency, an organization for which Deck, too, had once worked. But Nash didn't know that for sure. Whoever they might be, they were, he'd stressed to Decker, the most formidable of opponents.

So after Deck had walked through the apartment twice, he'd gone out to his truck to get the bug sweeper that he kept behind the front seat. It wasn't until he went over the place thoroughly—and found no electronic surveillance devices—that he got the duffel bag down from the shelf in the master bedroom closet. It was exactly where Tess had told him it would be, above a tidy row of her clothing—mostly dresses and feminine versions of business suits.

He refused to let himself get too distracted, although there was one dress—formal, floor-length and slinky—that made him stop and look. It was gold and it glittered, with a set of string-like straps that he couldn't quite figure out, but that he guessed, when positioned properly, would leave most of Tess's back exposed. Most of her front, too—the neckline of the dress was cut almost down to the waist.

And yeah, perv that he was, he couldn't not touch it, and the soft fabric slipped seductively through his hands before he left the closet and set to work opening the drawers in the big dresser beneath the front window, doing what he'd come here to do—pack up a few things for his friend.

Not a lot, and nothing that would lead anyone who came in to search the place to believe that Nash was still alive. A stack of his favorite, comfortably faded T-shirts in rich colors, and an old sweatshirt—things that Tess might've wanted to wear to bed.

Deck then went through his friend's underwear drawer, searching for the Holy Grail of boxer briefs—a pair that was red-and-blue-striped.

Several weeks ago, Decker had gone to Target and bought Nash new socks and underwear. No way was he going to come here and remove clothing that Tess herself would never wear—not after taking such great pains to make sure their enemy believed Nash to be dead. But the substitute briefs Deck had purchased were apparently “ ball-crushingly uncomfortable” and “like wearing sandpaper.”

Despite his delicate hindquarters, Nash couldn't remember the brand
or style of briefs that were his favorites—only their red and blue color. Hence Decker's current scavenger hunt.

And there they were, red and blue, in the middle of an impressively huge stack of underwear. As Deck pulled them out, he had to admit that they
were
exceedingly soft to the touch. And yet they were cotton—truly a miracle of modern science. He made a note of the brand and the size, refolded them, and put them back on top of the pile.

He'd head for the mall in the morning, on his way out to the safe house. Nash was also going to need workout gear. Shorts. Sweatpants.

Jeans.

The irony there was that Nash had more pairs of jeans on the shelf in the closet than a man would need in an entire lifetime. And Deck was going to be buying him yet another pair.

And they probably wouldn't be soft enough, either.

Next item on his list was… He found the pile of novels right where Tess had said they were—on the table next to her side of the bed—and put them into the duffel. She'd also wanted her bathing suit—he'd have to remember to pick up a new one for Nash, too. Her favorite slippers, her running shoes.

He'd found everything and was zipping the bag when he heard it.

A sound from the living room that signaled more than a mere disruption of air molecules.

Deck grabbed his sidearm from his shoulder holster as he both dove for cover and spun, weapon raised, to face his attacker.

Who screamed, dropped the laundry basket she'd been carrying, and fell backward onto the tile floor, her hands in the air. “Don't shoot, it's me, don't shoot!”

Jesus, it was Tracy Shapiro, the Troubleshooters receptionist.

Decker immediately stood down. Figuratively. In reality, he slipped the safety back onto his weapon and flopped back on the plush carpeting, closing his eyes as he waited for the buzz-rush from the adrenaline at least to stop surging. With the jolt he'd gotten, it wasn't going to start to fade for a good long time.

“What,” he managed to ask, “the hell… ?”

“I'm sorry,” Tracy gasped. “I rang the buzzer, but I guess you didn't hear me.”

He turned his head to look at her. There was no way he'd missed hearing
a buzzer. Was there? Damnit, if he had … He rolled up into a sitting position as he holstered his weapon beneath his short-sleeved overshirt.

“Maybe it's broken,” she continued to prattle. “I mean, I pushed the button, and I assumed it buzzed but that I just couldn't hear it from out in the hallway so—”

Decker cut her off. “How did you get in?”

She fished in the front pocket of a pair of jeans that were right out of 1972. They fit her like a second skin, cut low on her hips but flaring out at the bottoms. “I have a key,” she announced, pulling one free and holding it up as Exhibit A. “Tess gave it to me when they—when she—moved in.”

As she re-pocketed it, her T-shirt rode up, exposing a smooth expanse of tanned, toned skin and, yes, a belly-button ring in a bright shade of blue. It figured Tracy would have one of them. As if those jeans weren't enough to turn the hetero male portion of the population into one giant hard-on.

Back when Decker was ten, he'd had a babysitter named Mary Kate Sullivan who wore hip-huggers nearly identical to these. Over three decades later, and he still hadn't recovered.

“I live upstairs … ?” Tracy now reminded him.

“I know.” Deck nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. She'd helped Tess and Nash find this apartment. Tracy and Tess had been friendly. Not good friends, not particularly close, but certainly neighborly.

“Are you here to get Jimmy's things?” she asked.

He felt himself go still. Why would she think he was here for
Nash's
things?

“Because I can help,” she continued, gathering up the clothes that had fallen out of the laundry basket when she'd dropped it, quickly refolding some of the T-shirts. “There's a Goodwill box at the grocery store down the street, although you might want to take his shoes to a consignment store. There's one that specializes in designer brands. Shoot, I forget the address, but it's over near the zoo.”

And Decker realized that when Tracy had said
get Jimmy's things,
she'd meant
get
as in pack them up and move them out of the apartment—which is what people did when someone died.

“No,” Deck told her. “Thanks, but I'm just here to pick up some stuff for Tess.”

Tracy believed him, her eyes somber. “How is she?”

“Hanging in,” he lied as he held out his hand.

Again, she bought it as she let him pull her up. “How are
you
?”

Most people didn't dare to ask him that. But the concern in her eyes was genuine.

And warm.

And for several long seconds, Decker found himself thinking about a phone conversation he and Tracy had had nearly two months ago. She'd told him she was available, if he ever needed anything, and being male, he'd thought she'd implied something else entirely. Something that included the exchange of bodily fluids. And while he'd stayed silent, figuring out what to say in response, she'd realized that her words could have been taken as a sexual invitation, and she'd furiously backpedaled, letting him know that that
wasn't
what she'd meant at all, that she'd meant she was here if he should ever need to
talk.

He'd told her not to worry, that he hadn't gone there and thought that, but they both knew he was lying.

On the other hand, he'd believed her. She honestly hadn't meant her words as a disguised
come hither and I'll do you.

Not consciously. Subconsciously, though, was an entirely different story. Decker was fully aware that Tracy Shapiro noticed him on a purely animal, biological, female-to-alpha-male level.

And animal attraction being what it was, they'd both been careful, from the start, to keep their distance.

Which was why Tracy now pulled her hand free—damn, was he still holding it?—and took a step back at the exact same moment that Decker did.

And wasn't that awkward?

He forced a smile that no doubt came out more like a grimace, and answered the question she'd asked. “I'm hanging in, too.”

“Well, I'm happy to help however I can. With the packing,” she quickly clarified. Which only served to let him know that the thought of a different kind of help—one that put her atop him and naked—had flashed through her mind as well.

He pushed the thought away, slamming the lid on a box that he'd kept carefully shut for so many years that he'd lost count.

Tracy picked up the laundry basket and carried it into the bedroom, setting it on Tess and Nash's bed. “Just say the word,” she added.

Decker leaned in the doorway, watching her put the clean clothes
into the dresser drawers, careful to keep his gaze off her exquisitely shaped ass. “I don't want to move any of Nash's things out before Tess is ready,” he lied easily.

“Of course.” Tracy seemed to know where everything went, which wasn't that big of a surprise. She had something of a reputation for being inquisitive.

He couldn't resist saying, “I had no idea you did laundry on the side.”

She shot him a humorous
oh no you dih-n't
look, and in that moment, before she answered, Decker realized that
that
was what was different. Tracy, who had a key, had been in this apartment since his last visit. And she'd taken the dirty laundry that had been overflowing from the hamper in the corner of the bedroom. She'd washed and folded it and was now putting it back.

“Tess and I have a deal,” she told Decker. “It's supposed to be a mutual thing, only I almost never travel, so … Anyway, if we find that we're unexpectedly out of town, which happens—happened—to her and Jimmy pretty often, the other one of us goes into the fridge and takes the perishables. We also make sure the garbage isn't turning into toxic waste in the kitchen. I realized, about a week ago, that I hadn't done that, so I came in, you know, wearing my hazmat suit? Not that I'd needed it.”

“I took care of the garbage,” Deck told her.

“I figured,” Tracy said. “But then I saw the hamper and I thought that's gonna suck, you know, if Tess comes home to find a pile of Jimmy's dirty clothes and, um …”

She'd opened one of the drawers and was standing there, staring into it, distracted.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Decker told her. “Thank you.”

“I also checked the washer and dryer,” she said as she turned to look at him. “There was a load of socks and underwear in the dryer. I folded that and put it away.”