I'm Watching You (9 page)

Someone splashed ice water on his face and his head snapped up. But he
couldn't see so well. Both his eyes were swollen shut.

"One last time, Jimmy.
Where is Christina Braxton?"
The calm, even voice came from the shadows. Jimmy couldn't see the
speaker's face anymore, but he knew it was Vincent Malone.

"I don't know," Jimmy whispered.

He tried to flex his swollen fingers, now numb from the too-tight ropes
that secured his hands behind his back. Blood caked his well-lined face and
stained the white button-down shirt he'd pressed himself this morning. Or
was it yesterday? The beatings had robbed him of any sense of time.

His last clear memory was of entering the waterfront warehouse to meet
his former boss, Richard Braxton. Only, Mr. Braxton hadn't been there.
His right-hand man, Vincent, and a couple of his goons had been waiting for
him. There'd been no conversation as the goons had strapped him to a
chair. To set the tone, Vincent had taken a billy club and smacked it hard
against Jimmy's knuckles. And then the questions about Mrs. Braxton had
started.

"Don't make me hurt you, Jimmy. I don't like hurting
you," Vincent had said.

"I don't know where she is. I ain't seen her in two
weeks." Pain had burned every muscle in Jimmy's body.

Jimmy didn't want to give Vincent Mrs. B. He had liked her from
the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. Pretty didn't come near to
describing her. She was a stunner. And Mrs. B. was a kind soul. She'd
treated him with respect from the get-go, always calling him "
Mr.
" Quinn. No one had called him "
Mr.
" anything in his entire life.

This past year Mrs. B. had been his responsibility. It was his job to
drive her where she wanted to go, wait for her until she finished whatever it
was she was doing, and then take her home. And it was his job to report to Mr.
Braxton every move she made. The boss wanted to know everything his wife did,
who she saw and even what she read.

Jimmy hadn't been proud of the work but he'd done his job,
figuring it didn't hurt anybody. Who was he to say what went on between a
man and his wife?

Two months ago, everything had changed. Mrs. B had gotten into the black
Lexus wearing a vicious shiner. She'd said it was an accident. He'd
accepted the
excuse,
because he liked the pay his job
brought in and didn't want any trouble. But more bruises followed. He
wasn't so punch drunk or stupid to see what was happening. Braxton had
started to beat his wife.

Jimmy had begun to hate Mr. Braxton.

Through it all, Mrs. B. had been nice to him, always calling him Mr.
Quinn. But he could see the light in her eyes was fading, bit by bit.
He'd have quit the job, but Mrs. B. needed him and he needed the money.

"Remember the last time you saw her, Jimmy? You dropped her off
somewhere. Where was it?" Vincent now leaned close to his ear.
"Tell me, Jimmy, and I'll make the pain stop. She isn't worth
this kind of trouble. She's a lying whore."

Rough hands shoved his head back against the chair. A sharp blade
pressed against his cheek. It cut into the tender flesh under his eye.

Jimmy screamed. Blood streamed down his face.

"Next come the eyes, Jimmy."

"I dropped her near the water at a restaurant." He gave the
address. "I think she slipped out the bathroom window."

"Where'd she go?"

The blade slid over his eyelid. "The restaurant owner said
north."

"Did you see anyone else? Did she meet another man?" He
jabbed his thumb into the fresh cut under Jimmy's eye.

Jimmy screamed. "I didn't see
no one
,
I swear."

"That's all?"

Jimmy figured he'd burn in hell for what he was about to say. But
what could Satan do to him that Mr. Braxton hadn't already done?
"He hurt her.
Made her cry.
She had bruises on
her face."

"I believe you, Jimmy." The voice he heard now was Richard
Braxton's. Terror flooded his broken body. He tried to open his eyes but
couldn't. God, but he hurt. "You got to believe me, Mr. B. I
didn't know she was planning to run."

He heard a cigarette lighter snap open, then smelled the scent of a
freshly lit cigarette. Braxton liked his smokes when he was tense. "You
shouldn't have let her get away."

"I know."

The tip of a gun pressed against his temple and fired.

Monday, July 7, 4:02
P.M
.

The law offices of Turner and Barlow were
located in a suburban office park twenty miles west of Richmond. The five-story
building had a shiny, reflective exterior and was nestled next to a large lake
surrounded by pristine park benches and tree-lined jog paths. Tall front doors
led to a foyer capped with skylights that magnified sunlight down on polished
black marble floors.

Zack and Warwick checked the business directory posted on the wall and
rode the elevator to the fifth floor. The elevator door dinged opened to
muffled shouts. It was impossible to make out what was being said, but the tone
was unmistakably angry.

Wordlessly, the detectives bypassed the stunned receptionist and cut
around the maze of cubicles toward the corner office on the building's
south side. The name on the office door read Quinton Barlow.

"I want to see my damn attorney! Where is he?!" the male
voice thundered behind the wood paneled door.

Zack hesitated. "That sounds like Ronnie T."

Warwick nodded. "He's either one damn good liar or he
doesn't know what happened to Harold."

"My money's on one damn good liar."

Ronnie T. had built a drug empire that stretched up and down the I-95
corridor. He'd evaded arrest on drug-trafficking charges; however, thanks
to Zack's undercover work, the Feds had been able to make a case for
income tax evasion.

Without announcing himself, Zack opened the door and strolled into the
plush office. "I thought I heard a familiar voice."

Warwick was a step behind him. "What's got everyone so
upset?"

Ronnie T. stood in front of Quinton Barlow's desk, his right hand
clenching an ornate walking stick that coordinated with his white jumpsuit and
custom Nikes. He sported a ball cap cocked at a jaunty angle and wore a thick
gold chain worth more than most cops made in a year.

Across the desk, a composed Quinton Barlow faced him. Short and pudgy,
he wore a white monogrammed dress shirt, red silk tie, and dark suit pants.
Barlow had been practicing criminal defense law for thirty-plus years. Dealing
with men like Ronnie T. was standard.

Barlow met Zack's gaze and smiled pleasantly. "Gentlemen,
what can we do for you?"

Ronnie T.'s eyes narrowed before he smiled at Zack.
"Five-O.
Shit. Before you ask, I ain't done
nothing
wrong. My hearing was canceled this morning, because
my damn attorney didn't show. I was just asking Quinton here where the
hell Harold is hiding."

Zack pulled a slim notebook and pen out of his pocket. "So where
is Harold?"

Ronnie T. flashed a signature grin even as his grip tightened on his
cane. "Quinton isn't telling."

"Ronnie only just burst into my office," Barlow said.

Zack raised an eyebrow and looked at Barlow, unsure of what he really
knew about his law partner. "Do you know where your partner is?"

Barlow didn't flinch. "I've spoken to Jordan. She told
me about your visit."

"She didn't waste any time," Zack said.

"She understands even the innocent need an attorney when dealing
with the police," Quinton said.

Ronnie T. leaned on his cane. "Someone mind filling me in on
what's what?"

Zack studied Barlow's guarded expression before he shifted his
gaze back to the dealer. "Harold's body was found this morning
behind Sanctuary Women's Shelter. He was shot point-blank in the
chest."

Ronnie T.'s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
"Shit."

Zack wasn't fooled by Ronnie's surprise. "When's
the last time you saw your counselor?"

Barlow cleared his throat. "Don't answer any of their
questions."

Ronnie T. shrugged. "I don't mind answering, Quinton. I
ain't got
nothing
to hide. I saw Harold
yesterday after court."

"Word is you two fought," Zack said. "Fact, I hear it
was nearly a knock-down, drag-out fight in the courthouse."

"Ronnie," Barlow warned, "
keep
your mouth shut."

Ronnie T. waved Barlow off. "Yeah, we mixed it up. He wanted me to
take a plea agreement. I told him I was paying him the big bucks to keep me out
of jail. The deal was no time spent behind bars."

"What time was that?" Warwick said.

"About three."

"Do you know where Turner was headed?" Zack said.

"Said something about dinner with his old
lady."

"And where were you last night, Ronnie T.?" Zack said.

Ronnie T.'s full lips split into a wide grin. "I was at a
swim meet. My kid was swimming the butterfly for the first time at the
community pool. He's on the Mite team. And he won his heat."

"I'm assuming you have witnesses," Warwick said.

"I do." Ronnie T. sounded amused. "They are some of
Richmond's finest--all white folks. I can give you a list of
names."

Zack flipped to a clean page in his notebook. "Let's have
them."

Ronnie T. rattled off a half dozen names. He looked pleased with
himself. Whatever had gone down last night, Ronnie T. had made certain that he
was in a very public place.

Barlow picked up a letter printed on the firm's stationary.
"I too have an alibi. In this letter is the name and phone number of the
manager of my country club. He can verify my alibi for last night. You'll
also find Mrs. Turner's alibi contacts on that sheet."

"Can those witnesses vouch for where she might have been at four
or five this morning?" Warwick asked.

"As a matter of fact one can vouch for her at that time. Her
sister and she were talking on the phone between three
A.M
.
and six
A.M
. Her sister lives in Australia. There
is also a maid who lives in the house who says she heard the women talking
until almost five."

Zack took the paper but didn't bother to read it. He'd call
all the names on both lists but already knew each contact would verify the
stories he'd been given.

Warwick picked up an engraved crystal paperweight off of Barlow's
desk. He tossed it between his hands. "How was the Turner marriage
overall?
Happy?
Tense?"

"I wasn't privy to their personal life until just minutes
ago," Barlow said, frowning at the paperweight in Warwick's hand.
"However, Jordan did tell me that she confided the details of her
troubled marriage to Lindsay O'Neil two weeks ago. Jordan said Ms.
O'Neil was quite angry and upset when Jordan refused to leave her
husband."

Zack bit back an oath. Lindsay had been holding out on him. "Why
would Mrs. Turner share that bit of information?"

"She said Harold's body was found behind Sanctuary, which,
if I'm not mistaken, is the shelter your wife oversees."

What kind of angle was Jordan Turner working?

"Did O'Neil and Jordan Turner have any other contact after
that meeting?" Warwick said.

The question was necessary but nevertheless annoyed Zack.

Barlow shook his head. "Mrs. Turner said that Ms. O'Neil
called her this afternoon."

Zack swallowed another oath. "And they talked about?"

"Mrs. Turner was concerned that Ms. O'Neil had killed
Harold," Barlow said.

"Did she have proof?" Zack asked.

"No."

Amused, Ronnie T. raised a finger. "What a minute. Lindsay
O'Neil was your wife, wasn't she, Detective Kier?"

Zack's jaw tightened. "She still is."

Ronnie T. cackled. "I thought she divorced your sorry ass a year
ago."

Warwick set the paperweight down, stepping between the two men.
"We'll want to interview Mrs. Turner again."

Barlow moved the paperweight out of Warwick's reach.
"We'll be happy to help in the investigation in any way."

"I'd be happy to ask my associates if anyone hated ole
Harold enough to kill him," Ronnie T. offered.

"The last thing I want is your help," Zack said. The
dealer's favors always had strings attached.

Ronnie T.'s smile didn't fade but his eyes hardened.
"Is my help too good for you now that you're sober, Detective
Kier?"

Zack got right in Ronnie T.'s face. "Stay out of the
investigation."

Ronnie T. laughed. "But I want to help."

Warwick nudged Zack. Zack reined in his temper and backed up.
"Neither of you leave town."

When Barlow and Ronnie T. both agreed, the two cops walked out of the
office. Zack pushed the elevator button. His temper seethed. The doors opened.
They got in. Neither spoke until they were outside by the car.

Warwick glared up at the building. "Ronnie T. really pisses you
off."

"I crossed paths with him during several narcotics investigations.
That million-dollar smile hides a ruthless heart." He'd tried
several times to supply Zack with drugs. Once after Lindsay had moved out,
he'd been tempted, but he'd refused, as always.

Zack's cell vibrated. He checked the number.
Ayden.
He flipped open his phone.
"Kier."

"Get over to Sanctuary." Ayden's sharp voice jumped
through the phone. "Someone delivered Harold Turner's hand to
Lindsay."

The police had ordered Lindsay into the shelter's family room
across the hallway from her office. She'd been told to wait for the
detectives. She sat on the couch, her arms folded and her stomach knotted. She
tapped her foot, believing she was going to jump out of her skin.

A half dozen uniformed officers had taken over Sanctuary. One was posted
outside Lindsay's office, two on the front porch, and three in the
kitchen. They spoke in hushed tones laced with nervous excitement.

With each flash of a camera bulb, she knew Sara, the forensic tech, was
in her office shooting pictures, no doubt from every conceivable angle, of the
hand and the boxed flowers. Lindsay lost count how many times the digital
camera had flashed.

News vans now from all three local television stations were parked out
front. She noticed that Kendall Shaw was talking with her cameraman. A frown
furrowed the tall brunette's brow as she jabbed her finger in the air.
Kendall was angry that there was no film of Lindsay running hysterically out of
the shelter toward the unmarked police car. Too bad for Kendall, Lindsay
thought bitterly. That bit of film would have made great news.

This day was churning memories that she'd thought were long
buried. Running out of the shelter today reminded her of a similar July day
twelve years ago when she'd found her mother. She'd bolted from the
house. Screaming, she'd run a half mile to the neighbor's house and
pounded on the door until a befuddled Mr. Jenkins had answered. Words had
rushed from her mouth. Most had been unintelligible. And she'd nearly
hyperventilated. But her neighbor had pieced together enough, figured out what
had happened, and called the sheriff. She never went back in her parents'
house again.

Lindsay shoved a trembling hand through her hair. Rising from the couch,
she moved to the window. She'd been almost as rattled today.

Jesus. Someone had sent her a severed hand.

Ruby came around the corner from the kitchen with a cold soda. She
pushed the can into Lindsay's hand. "Why don't you come into
the kitchen so I can make you something to eat? I've got turkey and
bread."

Food was the last thing on Lindsay's mind. "No thanks,
Ruby."

"Milk shakes don't cut it, honey. You're going to get
sick. I should make you a turkey sandwich."

Lindsay's argument died on her lips when she saw concern in the
older woman's eyes. She knew Ruby wasn't so worried about food, but
the entire situation. She needed something to do. "You know what, turkey
sounds great to me.
Extra mustard?"

Ruby nodded. She was obviously relieved. "I'll have it for
you in two shakes. Now, come away from the window and sit down."

"We're going to have to move the shelter," Lindsay
said. "I thought this morning that
maybe,
just
maybe, we could dig our way out of this, but not now. The
press
aren't
going to sit on our location much longer."

Ruby planted meaty fists on her wide hips. "Don't borrow
trouble, Lindsay. Let's just take it one step at a time."

"We don't have the cash reserves for a move. And Dana is
going to be furious." She closed her eyes and pictured her boss's
tight angular face. She sensed an invisible tide had turned against her.

Ruby laid a hand on Lindsay's shoulder. "Honey, you're
good at what you do. The board knows that. You'll find a way out of
this."

One way or another, she would fight for this shelter. But she'd
been in enough uphill battles to recognize one. "Thanks for the vote of
confidence, but in the meantime, you'd better see if you can pick up
extra hours at your other job. I know we've never been able to pay you
much, but we may not have much to offer for the near future."