I'm Watching You (28 page)

Thursday, July 10, 5:30
A.M
.

Warwick was operating on next to no sleep. Zack
had been up half the night running down leads on the Turner/Saunders murders.
He'd been going over Saunders's phone record and studying Kendall
Shaw's news tape from Monday. So far, he'd come up empty-handed.
And the brass was getting very antsy. If an arrest wasn't made soon, jobs
were going to be lost.

They'd left the office at four
A.M
.
Warwick had headed to the gym for a quick forty-five-minute workout that he
hoped would at least get his blood flowing and sustain him through the day.

The gym had been dark when he had arrived, so he had used his key and
let himself in. Now he pounded the punching bag, driving the full weight of his
frustration into it. Kendall Shaw had called him four times yesterday, trying
to get a quote for her next report. He had refused her once and had told her
not to call again. But she had.

The woman didn't understand the word
no
.
She was a pain in the ass. And still he'd imagined Kendall Shaw walking
toward him with her hair flowing around her shoulders and wearing only a red
silk robe. He'd pictured her dropping the robe in a puddle around her
feet and in the soft moonlight lying down for him and opening her legs. Moaning
with pleasure, he had straddled her and cupped her full white breasts. She had
smiled up at him, begged him to take her, and he'd driven his hard cock
into her.

The fantasy had left him hard and restless.

"Shit," Warwick grumbled before he smacked the bag one last
time.

He finished his workout and hit the showers. After a quick shower, he
dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and slicked back his still-wet hair. Gym bag in
hand, he headed into Pete's office. He'd promised to spar with one
of Pete's fighters on Saturday, but at the rate things were going, he
wasn't going to make it. Everyone would be living at the station until
the killer was found.

He moved down the dim hallway past the dozens of black-and-white photos
that spanned two decades. The images were of Pete's fighters. Some were
taken during fight matches, others were publicity head shots, but all of
Pete's fighters were on the wall. Pete took pride in his
fighters--his family, as he'd often called them. Warwick glanced at
his own picture taken when he was eighteen. He
grimaced,
amazed he'd ever been that young.

He knocked on the office door, which was ajar, thinking maybe Pete had
slipped in while he was working out. "Pete?"

The door swung open. The lights were off in the office. Warwick flipped
them on.

Like always, Pete's dark wooden swivel chair sat in front of a
large desk that butted against the wall. The desk was a mess, covered with
papers, newspapers, books, and, in the center, a state-of-the-art computer, his
only concession to the modern world. Pete updated his computer every year and
had the latest software on it. Above the desk on the wall hung a bulletin board
covered with news clips covering the charity events Pete had hosted in the last
few years. And there were more photos.

Warwick found a pencil and a Post-it pad. Quickly he scratched out a
note begging out of the bout scheduled for Saturday. As he pressed the note to
the computer screen, he caught sight of a framed picture nestled on the
far-right corner of the desk. He never remembered seeing the picture before.
Curious, he picked it up.

Unlike the others, this picture was of a twentysomething Pete holding a
young girl not more than five. She had yellow hair, fair eyes, and a big
gap-toothed grin. Pete stared down at the girl, his gaze tender and full of
love.

Did Pete have a kid? In all the years Warwick had known Pete, he'd
never talked about having any other family. He'd always said Warwick was
all the family he'd needed.

But who was Warwick to criticize the old guy for having a few secrets.

God knows, Warwick had his share.

Richard Braxton arrived at the posh Richmond Hotel suite just after
seven. His back was stiff and his head pounded as he watched the bellboy set
his overnight bag on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Richard set his
computer bag on the bed, pulled a fifty from his pocket, and handed it to the
bellboy. "Thanks."

The kid glanced at the fifty and his eyes brightened. "Anything
else I can do for you?"

"Where can I set my computer up?"

The bellboy pointed to a table by the large window that looked out
toward the river. "Just call down to the front desk and they'll
give you the password for the wireless hookup."

Richard handed the kid another twenty. "Do me a favor and get the
password for me. There should also be a package for me at the front desk.
Deliver both back to my room in thirty minutes along with an egg-white omelet,
orange juice, and whole-wheat toast dry.

The bellboy pocketed the bill. "The package arrived before you
did." He walked into the sitting room. "Here it is."

Richard took the twelve-by-twelve-inch box. "Thanks."

"I'll take care of the password and omelet right
away."

"Good."

The kid was annoyingly bright eyed but useful. "Is this your first
time in Richmond?"

Richard managed a smile. "Yes."

"Business or pleasure?"

"A little of both."
He hated travel. It threw off his
routine and generally put him in a foul mood.

"If there is anything else I can do for you, just ring. Ask for
Johnny."

"Thanks, Johnny. I'll do that."

When Johnny closed the door behind him, Richard turned to the window and
loosened his tie. This city was as hot as blazes and the humidity was so thick
he could cut it with a knife. He missed California, his views of the Pacific
Ocean, and he couldn't wait to return.

But he was willing to put up with all the inconveniences if it meant
finding his Christina. His home hadn't felt right without her.

He opened the box. Inside was a strand of nylon rope, a .38 pistol, a
switchblade, vials of sedatives, and syringes. Lessons would have to be taught
to Christina. She would have to understand that running from him was wrong.

"Soon, Christina, soon I will find you and soon you will come home
with me, where you belong."

Greenland's body, now wrapped in tarp, was heavier than the
Guardian had anticipated. Add to that the pain of his cracked rib and it was a
struggle to haul the body out of the white van as the sun rose.

The Guardian grabbed the rope around the tarp and jerked hard. Pain
scorched through his midsection and shot up and down his spine. For a moment he
had to pause and catch his breath.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He'd gotten sloppy last night.
He'd underestimated his enemy and he'd nearly screwed everything
up. He rubbed the sweat from his brow. He'd not slept in four or five
days and his reflexes were off. But to sleep would mean a break from the
killing and he wouldn't stop.
Couldn't
stop.

He could have left the body in the woods but it was important to display
his work. People needed to know that monsters like Greenland weren't safe
from
him
.

After wiping more sweat from his forehead, he gritted his teeth and pulled
the body to the ground. He dragged it across the dry earth toward a tall oak by
the mountain biker's trail in Deep Run Park. Few traveled the path this
early, but by midday it would see enough traffic that someone would find the
body.

With a grunt he pulled the body upright. Quickly, he
unwrapped
the tarp, uncovering Greenland's head and torso. He'd position the
body and then deliver the hand--the trophy--to Lindsay.

The cracking of twigs had him stiffening. Damn. Who the hell was out
this early?

"Holy shit!"

The strained voice had the Guardian whirling around. Two teenage
mountain bikers paused on the trail as they straddled their bikes. The taller
one was a male, no more than seventeen. Long stringy hair accentuated oily skin
and acne. The shorter one, also male, had blond hair and a KISS T-shirt. Each
wore bike helmets and gloves.

The Guardian's heart hammered. Jesus, why did they have to find
him? He released Greenland's body and reached for the gun tucked in his
belt at the small of his back. "Hey, guys, it's not what it looks
like. I'm a cop." To prove his claim, he flashed a badge.

The taller teen's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is
that?"

"A dead body."
There was no hiding what
they'd seen and there was no disguising his own face as he tucked the
badge back in his pocket. They had seen him. Damage control was his sole
option. He didn't want to sacrifice them. Shit. They didn't deserve
to die. But the Greater Good was at stake here. Hadn't God tested Abraham
by asking him to kill his only son?

He smiled. "I've just called for backup. More cops are going
to be here soon."

The shorter teen laid his bike down and took a step closer. "What
happened to that guy?"

"Shot, by the looks of it. We won't know until the medical
examiner gets here." Hand still behind his back, he pulled the hammer
back on the gun.

"Damn," the teen said. "I've never seen a dead
body before."

"It's rough."

The other teen had made no move toward him. "Hey, Mark, come on
back. You shouldn't get that close."

Mark shrugged. "He's dead, Jeff. He can't hurt
me."

The Guardian smiled. "Naw, he can't hurt you. Have a good
long look." As Mark moved even closer, the Guardian jerked the gun free
but his ribs pinched hard and slowed what should have been a fluid motion.

Mark saw the gun and immediately started running toward his friend.

He fired. The first bullet went wide and missed Mark. He fired again and
this time hit him in the leg. Mark fell to the ground, screamed, and clawed at
the dirt. He cried for his mother.

For a split second, the Guardian froze like a deer caught in the beam of
headlights. "Jesus, please forgive me. Forgive my sins."

Jeff stared in horror at the Guardian and his wounded friend. Fear
turned to shock and then anger. He dropped his bike and scooped up a branch.
Screaming, he rushed toward the Guardian.

The branch tip caught the Guardian on the shoulder and drew blood. Pain
jerked him out of his own funk. Instinct took over and he fired.

The bullet hit Jeff in the chest. He stood stunned for a moment as if
not quite sure what had happened. And then a plume of blood began to stain his
shirt and he dropped to his knees. Air gurgled from the hole in his chest.

The Guardian's ribs ached and his shoulder burned as he staggered
over to Mark, who was crying and calling even louder for his mother.

The Guardian stared at him. "Damn it, kid. Why did you have to be
here?"

Tears streaked Mark's freckled face. "Why are you doing this
to me?
Me
and Jeff never would have told."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't take that chance." Tears
filled the Guardian's eyes.
"Dumb, damn kids.
You shouldn't have been here."

He raised his gun and shot Mark in the head.

Frank Hines's angry voice echoed through
the house. His wife, Deb, was crying. He'd been drinking again, and
judging by the sounds, he'd been hitting Deb again.

"I told you I don't want that
worthless brother of yours coming around here!" Frank said.

"Why, Frank? He's my brother.
He's family."

"
I
am your only
family!"

Lindsay was ten. And she was hiding in the
darkened closet of her bedroom. She was too old for teddy bears and yet she
clutched the threadbare one she'd had since she was a baby.

Her father began to yell again. She had grown
to hate her father, and though her mother had told her to hide, she could no
longer stay cowered in the dark closet in her room. The shouting and the crying
was driving her insane.

She wiped the tears from her face and stood.
Slowly she opened the closet door and moved through her room down the hallway
to her parents' bedroom. She opened the door and peered inside. Her
father stood over her mother, his arm raised in the air. He brought the back of
his hand down. The blow connected with her mother's jaw and it sounded as
if it had shattered some of her mother's teeth. Her mother cried and
ducked her head low.

Rage filled Lindsay. She pushed open the door
and ran toward her father. She wanted to make him stop. "Leave her
alone!"

He turned and glared down at her.
"Brat!"

The ferocity in his gaze made her hesitate with
fear. He was so tall.

Her mother raised her head. "Lindsay, go
away. Run."