Hot Pursuit (38 page)

Taylor stared down at her hands. They were shaking, she noticed, damp and cold from her tears. “He's trying to protect me, Izzy. But he can't.”

“So it's gotten personal between you?”

Taylor shrugged. “You'll have to ask Jack about that.”

“I'm asking you.”

She stacked coffee cups in the sink, then closed her eyes. “I think it's always been personal for me, since the first time I saw him balancing that stupid plank of stupid wood.” She took a hard breath. “And that changes nothing. I'm going to Candace's funeral. We'll take precautions, I'll be alert, you can put men all around me, but—but I'm going.”

“You're sure, Taylor? You need to be absolutely certain about this.”

She nodded, her sharp words and anger suddenly gone. In their wake, all she felt was weakness and betrayal.

“In that case, I'll make the call.”

 

“The chopper leaves in twenty minutes.” Izzy stood on the porch of the casita, zipping up his jacket. The big aluminum case was gripped in his right hand.

Jack didn't answer, sitting on the bottom step, his face hard.

“McCall will drive me back.”

Jack's hand clenched and unclenched. “Is she going?”

“Yes.”

Jack shot to his feet. “You're all fools to allow it. She'll be a clear target for anything that moves, and you know it.”

“I know it. You know it. She knows it.” Izzy's voice tightened. “But orders are orders. If she wants to go, Braden says it's her right.”

Jack kicked a stone across the courtyard. It
pinged
loudly against the far adobe wall. “Braden can take his orders and—” His breath caught hard and he turned back slowly. “This is Braden's doing, isn't it? By God, he's going to use her to set a trap for the Albanian.”

Izzy stood unmoving in the darkness.

“That's why he had you tell her—and why he approved her visit at the funeral.”

“We don't know that she'll be a target. There has been no new activity near her apartment and no sign of Rains.”

“Bullshit. You know Lemka will send someone to monitor the funeral. Hell, he might even come himself.” The words exploded off Jack's lips. “I'm calling Sam McKade. We'll have Braden overruled.”

Izzy moved in front of him. “You'll torpedo any chance at a career in the Navy if you do.”

Jack's jaw worked hard. “I'll take that chance.”

“What if Braden pulls you out? What if he sends someone else to replace you? Do you want a stranger walking beside her when it only takes a split-second's distraction to leave her dead? Or don't you care about that?”

Jack's fist was rising before he knew it. With a curse, he reined in the hard right hook inches from Izzy's chin. “Okay, Teague, you've made your point. No stranger will be standing watch over Taylor tomorrow. But I want to know the
whole
damned story, not just the pieces that Braden wants me to hear.”

“You're asking me to disobey mission directives?”

“I'm asking for the truth.”

Izzy grimaced. “Same thing.” He rubbed his neck, staring down at the case in his hand. “I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much. And you'd damned well better see that Taylor doesn't find out. Not yet.”

Jack nodded.

Izzy sat down on the porch. Lightning flickered off to the north, but he didn't appear to notice. Resting the big case in his lap, he began to talk softly.

 

When Taylor walked out into the darkness five minutes later, her face was pale but composed, and she carried her single small suitcase. Her purse and all its contents had been secured in a protective case, to be delivered to the Navy's biohazard lab for a thorough inspection.

She watched lightning flicker over the horizon as she listened to the distant echo of coyotes up in the hills. For some reason, the low cries sounded like a warning. She shook away the thought, staring around her. It took her a few seconds to realize that Jack and Izzy were sitting nearby, motionless in the darkness.

“Am I disturbing something top secret out here?”

“We're done,” Jack said, his voice grave as he stood up. “You're all packed?”

“Everything I came with.” Her whole body felt cold as she faced him in the moonlight.

“Then let's go get Sheriff McCall.” He started to take her arm, but she drew back.

“Not now,” she said. “Not until this is all over.”

After a moment, Jack nodded. Thunder rumbled in the distance as he opened the gate from the casita. “In that case, we'll fill you in on the arrangements as we walk.”

Chapter Forty-two

The church was in a small delta town near Sacramento. The weather had turned gray, and rain threatened as the big black limousines pulled up in a row.

A good day for a funeral, Taylor thought. Candace hated to spend beautiful weather anywhere except outside climbing a sheer face of granite.

Except now she'd never climb again.

Rounding a curve, they crossed a vast green lawn that stretched to a winding drive. Beyond was a line of people dressed in jeans and dark parkas. Candace's climbing friends, Taylor realized.

She stared out at the gray sky. “Did Rains do it?”

Jack was at the opposite side of the seat, his face unreadable. “No. The man was identified by one of Candace's friends. He was a foreign national seen several weeks before in contact with an Albanian named Viktor Lemka.”

“The man in Monterey,” Taylor said quietly.

“So we believe.”

Taylor watched the first limousine stop. The doors opened and half a dozen big men in suits got out. When they reached the little church, they remained outside.

“Yours?”

“Ours.” Jack pulled a box from his pocket. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. For once, don't argue.”

She moved warily, her face set, her eyes cool as he lifted her lapel carefully and pinned a rhinestone brooch in place. “Just in case,” he said grimly.

“How about a ray gun and a secret handshake to go with it?”

He didn't answer, pulling a small wire out of his pocket.

“What's that for?”

“A lapel mic. I'll be able to hear whatever you say the whole time we're here.” He slid the wire under her jacket and draped the cord down into her shirt pocket, where he clipped a small transceiver in place. “Looks like you're set. Remember, all our people will be wearing a lapel pin with the state flag of California. If you need them, use them.”

“I'll remember.” They were nearing the church, and Taylor felt a stab of pain when she saw the shiny hearse decorated with flowers.

Jack smoothed her lapel and touched her cheek, just for a second. “You're good to go, O'Toole. Break a leg.”

 

The ceremony was grim, rain sheeting off the roof of the little church. A dozen mourners sat restless and uncomfortable, trying to ignore the rain as the minister spoke about happier rewards and the greater world beyond.

Taylor sat listening, dry-eyed and cold, almost numb. She hoped that Candace was in a place with granite slabs and perfect traverses. That would be her true idea of heaven.

She turned her head. Jack seemed to be listening to the minister, but his eyes shifted constantly. At a door halfway back, she saw Izzy, dressed in a raincoat with the collar turned up. So far there had been no men with machine guns, no sudden assaults by strangers bursting from an unmarked car. There were only a few people who sat uncomfortably, doing their best to mark the passage of a friend.

When Taylor looked up, she was surprised to see the minister had stopped speaking and people were filing out of the church. She stood up and turned, coming face-to-face with the woman she had met at the shopping gala.

“Martha Sorenson.” The woman held out a hand. “When I heard, I—I couldn't believe it.” Her voice broke and she looked away. “You know that Candace worked at my lab for five or six months. I still can't believe she's—” She took a shaky breath. “It was a nice ceremony, wasn't it?” The question seemed vacant, spoken not to Taylor or anyone else in particular.

As she put away her hymnal, Taylor heard the tinkle of metal and noticed Martha Sorenson was wearing a bracelet of small cats, just like the one that belonged to Candace.

“Candace had a bracelet like that.”

“She loved that silly thing. One day at lunch she insisted that I buy one, too.” Gently Martha touched the metal figures, one by one. “She was so young, so naïve. She didn't deserve . . . this. Nobody deserves what happened to her.”

Taylor moved closer as they walked to the doorway of the church. “Had you seen her recently?”

“She came into the lab once, looking for Rains. If Harris Rains were here now, I'd kill him myself.” The older woman's voice was raw.

“Maybe it wasn't Rains.”

“What do you mean? Rains was behind this; I know it.”

Taylor stared out at the sullen sky. “She was seen with a foreigner just before—before it happened.”

“Who told you that?”

Taylor rubbed her neck. “I can't remember. Just a rumor, I suppose.”

Martha turned, blocking her way. Her face was pale and blotchy, her eyes bloodshot.

From crying, Taylor realized.

“The police said nothing about her meeting a foreign man.”

Taylor couldn't recall if this information was to be kept secret or not. “Maybe it was a mistake.”

Martha nodded slowly. “A very big mistake, I'm afraid.” Then she walked out into the gusting rain.

As Taylor stood in the doorway, Jack moved in behind her, flanked by a huge man with a broken nose who looked a lot like Vinnie de Vito's bodyguard. Sure enough, Sunny and her uncle were standing underneath umbrellas outside. When she saw Taylor, Sunny ran forward. “I was desperately worried about you,” she said over a hug. “You didn't answer your phone, and you didn't answer your door. Then Uncle Vinnie heard about Candace. Even though we didn't know her, we wanted to be here for you, Taylor. I'm so sorry.”

“So am I. It's all like a bad dream.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, Sunny. I'm just tired. I'll be fine.”

Sunny's uncle moved closer and touched Taylor's arm. “I offer my deepest condolences, my dear. To die young is the worst of tragedies.”

Taylor didn't answer, a burning in her throat.

“We're worried about you,” he said. “Very worried.”

“I'll be fine. Really.”

“I have a car. If you want to drive back to San Francisco with us, it would be our pleasure.”

“We'll see.” Taylor was vague, fairly certain that Jack would have other plans.

After a last look of sympathy, Sunny's uncle moved back outside, his arm on Sunny's waist.

They made a sad group, straggling over the wet grass toward a square of naked earth not far from the church. Underneath his umbrella, the minister intoned the final ritual.

Dust to dust.

But there was no dust here. Only rain and tears, Taylor thought, as the simple brown casket was lowered into the wet earth.

And then it was done.

Taylor closed her eyes. Some part of her was unable to believe that death was so close. Almost like a sleepwalker, she found Jack's arm.

“You okay?”

She didn't answer, turning back toward the cars, frozen through nerve and bone.

“We'll go now.”

She nodded numbly, noticing a cluster of people near the path to the church. She saw a flash of light and realized they were reporters.

A woman waved her arms, talking loudly as she strode closer. “Ms. O'Toole? You were her friend, Ms. O'Toole. Have the police told you anything? Did Candace know her killer?”

“You'll have to ask the police that,” Taylor said dully.

“Do the police have any leads?”

“You'd have to ask them about that, too.” When Taylor started to move past her, the woman tried to grab her arm, but Jack pushed her firmly out of the way, which only made her more angry.

“What about Harris Rains? The word is, he was involved.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Are you certain of that, Ms. O'Toole?” the reporter said, her voice shrill. “I'm told that you and Harris Rains were having an affair.”

Taylor swung around, her hands closing into fists. “Are you completely crazy as well as a monster? We're at the woman's funeral. She's
gone.
Don't come here with your obscene questions. Let her have her peace.”

“But—”

Jack shoved the journalist aside and then they strode on toward the church. “Do you want me to go back and punch her?”

Taylor smiled grimly. “A pleasant thought.”

“Don't worry, it's almost over.”

“All her friends were here,” Taylor said quietly. “Candace would have liked that.” She kept walking, not feeling the rain against her face. The cold didn't seem to matter now. Up ahead she saw the minister come out of the church, carrying an umbrella. He waved once and started toward her. As he did, several reporters broke away from the crowd by the road.

“Damned vultures.” Jack moved to Taylor's side to block their way.

One man charged ahead, shouting questions, and Jack knocked him to the ground. Suddenly, more reporters sprinted over the grass.

Would Candace have no peace, even now?

Taylor saw the minister with his back turned. He shook his head as the scuffling continued. “This is an outrage, an absolute outrage.” His voice sounded tense with disapproval. “Why don't you come with me into the church, my dear? It will be more quiet there.”

Sighing in relief, Taylor followed.

 

Jack held the struggling reporter on the ground and motioned to a nearby agent. “See that he's removed,” Jack said grimly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where's Izzy?”

“Near the limousine.”

Jack nodded and looked up. Taylor was a few feet away under an umbrella, talking with the minister, her head lowered. Maybe that would be good for her. She hadn't talked during the whole trip from Arizona, and he knew the pain was eating away inside her.

With it came the guilt, as if she had been somehow to blame for Candace's death.

He touched his earpiece, frowning as he heard Izzy's voice.

“I'm at the car. Let's move.”

“Copy.” Jack turned back toward the church and cursed.

Taylor was gone.

 

“The flowers were nice.” Taylor walked to the front of the empty church, passing sprays of white lilies, yellow roses, and one elegant orchid, the only warmth on a cold day. “She would have loved them.”

The minister moved along the pews, then shook his umbrella and set it carefully on a pew. “She was so young, so much alive. And then a thing like this.”

He turned. As he did, Taylor felt fear wedge in her throat. This wasn't the man who had spoken in the church and offered the eulogy at the gravesite. This man had hard eyes, a thin, cold mouth, just like the man in the photo Jack had shown her in Monterey.

He was the Albanian, Viktor Lemka.

She whirled, running for the door. “Jack,” she blurted. “Help—”

But she got no farther. Caught hard, she felt her arms shoved behind her, her mouth covered by a thick cloth. She felt a prick at her neck, kicked blindly, hearing the Albanian curse.

He was pulling at her coat as she fought him, his eyes pale and eager, as if he was enjoying her pain.

Then the room spun around her, and the flowers were gone.

 

Jack was running to the church when he heard Taylor's voice, a murmur nearly drowned by static. Where was she? Had she fainted?

Then the side door opened, and Taylor emerged, umbrella over her head. She walked slowly, a bouquet of white lilies in her hands.

He sprinted toward her, relieved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hearse lumber along the gravel path beyond the church, heading back toward the road. “Taylor, stop.”

She just kept walking.

He jumped a low stone fence, grabbing her arm. When he turned her around, someone else stared back at him beneath the umbrella, a woman with heavy features and sullen eyes, who was wearing Taylor's coat and her black hat.

“Izzy, Taylor's gone. Get back to the church.”

Jack was at the front steps when the door burst open and Martha Sorenson ran toward him, her face bruised. “He killed my sister. Candace—she was my sister, all I had. I was a fool not to see it before, but—he'll kill again if you don't stop him. Don't you see?” She struggled to hold Jack. “Your friend—she's there, in the car with him. He's hidden her in the coffin.”