Lethal Journey (3 page)

“What about
your evenings?”

“I’ve dated at
least a dozen men and you know it.” She gave him a tight smile and
snapped her bread twist. “Let’s drop it, Dad.”

Lauren glanced
across the table at the Picasso hanging on the wall. Eric had
always hated that painting, said it looked like mashed up peas and
carrots, and insisted on sitting with his back to it.

She never
thought he’d turn his back on her as well. A flash of anger surged
through her. Lauren grabbed another bread twist.

The knot in her
stomach added to her frustration...a reminder of how lonely she
really was.

Detective Eric
Brennan sat at his usual table and sipped the night’s beverage of
choice—a cola. In Chunkers Bar and Grill loud pointless chatter
overpowered the ‘80s rock and roll band on stage.

The last week
was a blur. Every waking hour he pounded the streets in search of
his father’s killer.

Eric knew every
detail of the shooters face, but not the kid’s name. He’d heard
from one of his informant’s, the kid was a young tough-guy looking
to be made—a “cugine” ready to make his mark into New York’s most
influential crime network, the Valdina family. As part of his
induction into the mob family, the asshole had already killed a
low-life rival family member and Eric and his father were working
the homicide case when they got a tip.

That steamy
June evening had started like any typical bust. Within minutes
after Eric and his father arrived at the warehouse, dozens of DEA
agents secured the perimeter. Eric entered the warehouse first, his
father followed. Amid the stench of mildew and dust, the first pop
of an automatic echoed within the barren walls.

They were
ambushed.

His father, a
veteran with twenty-three years on the force never saw the shots
coming. Eric threw his body against his father in hopes of
shielding him. It was too late. Instead Eric witnessed his father’s
face, the sickening whitish blue tint that came with death...

While Pete
checked in with the precinct, Eric shifted in the chair. His left
knee still burned where the bullet had grazed his leg. He rubbed
the scar, a permanent reminder of a drug bust gone bad. Very
bad.

“Hey, Brennan.”
Pete threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and downed the last
swallow of his beer. “Come on. I think we got a lead.”

Outside on West
35th Street, a full moon peeked through the clouds. Jagged streaks
of lightning ignited the sky as rain sprinkled against Eric’s
leather jacket. He lit a cigarette and leaned against his white
pick-up truck parked in front of Chunkers.

Pete smirked.
“Man, I thought you quit.”

“I did.” Eric
took a drag and stared at Pete through a haze of smoke.

“Yeah, looks
like it.”

“I’ll quit as
soon as you shave off that red mop you call a moustache.”

Pete smoothed
his moustache. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Looks like a
broom.”

His partner
rolled his eyes.

The drizzle
intensified and a draft brushed across Eric’s chest. “Are you going
to tell me? Or are we going to continue to discuss the hair above
your lip in the pissing rain?”

“There’s a
large cocaine shipment coming into Brooklyn Self Storage around
midnight. Word is Valdina’s crew will be there.”

Eric checked
his watch. Eleven-thirty. “Let’s move. I don’t want to be late for
the show.” He flicked his cigarette to the pavement and jumped into
the truck.

Adrenaline
pumped through Eric’s veins. His fingers tapped against the
steering wheel as if they had a life of their own. Maybe this time
he’d catch his father’s killer.

While Pete
flipped on a map light and scanned the details of the bust, Eric
turned the corner onto Pearl Street.

Two police cars
blocked the street across from the storage business. Sirens wailed,
dome lights flashed. A swarm of DEA agents and local cops huddled
in the wide driveway.

Pete sat up
straight in the seat. “Looks like they went in early.”

“Shit.” Eric
slammed his hand against the dashboard. He threw the truck in park,
and then jumped out.

Pete was two
steps behind him.

An agent met
Eric and held out his hand. “Good to see you. What’s homicide doing
down here?”

Eric shook the
man’s hand. “I’m looking for one of Valdina’s boys. What did you
get?”

“A hundred and
thirty-six kilos of coke. Estimated street value—fourteen million
dollars. Someone is going to be fuckin’ pissed.”

A haul like
that would put a huge hole in Valdina’s pocket and cause more
tension within the family ranks. “I’d say so. That’s a hell of a
lot of coke off the streets. Good work.” Eric shoved his hands into
his jacket pockets. “Any arrests?”

“Sorry, man.
Not even a rat in sight. They must have been tipped off.”

This was the
fourth time in the last two weeks. Someone was feeding Valdina’s
crew information, someone within the precinct. Eric needed to find
who was leaking the information. He paced between his truck and the
sidewalk, lit another cigarette and took a long drag. Now what?

Pete tapped him
on the shoulder. “Hey, just got a call. Stephen Taylor and his
daughter were run off the road.”

What?
Eric stood
speechless for a moment. “Are they—?”

“Don’t know.
They were taken to University Trauma. But check this out.”

Pete handed him
a slip of paper.

Eric read the
details. “Keep a close eye on prosecutor Stephen Taylor and the new
district attorney. They might run into some problems.” His stomach
lurched again.

“Are you
thinking what I am?” Pete asked.

“Yeah.
Thursday’s murder trial. They were deliberately run off the
road.”

For decades,
acting boss, Gino Valdina led New York’s crime family. He was a
smooth talking piece of crap who had manipulated his way out of
trouble a dozen times in the past. Easy to do in a city where
associates, cops and judges were bought and paid for with drug
money that lined the Valdina family’s pockets.

Pete opened the
passenger side door and got in.

Eric tossed the
half smoked cigarette to the ground and squashed the butt with his
foot.

Inside the
truck, a familiar rush burst through Eric’s veins. If one of
Valdina’s soldiers was responsible for Lauren’s accident, he
wouldn’t stop there. This may be the break he needed to help find
his father’s killer.

“Didn’t you say
you dated Taylor’s daughter a few years back?” Pete rammed a piece
of gum in his mouth and tossed the wrapper in the ashtray. “A
brunette. A real looker.”

Lauren’s face
flashed through Eric’s mind. “Yeah. Too bad she was such a spoiled
daddy’s girl.”

Four years had
passed and he wondered if Lauren had changed.

More than
anything, Eric prayed she was alive.

* * * *

“You’re in
shock, Miss Taylor. Please stay still,” a female instructed.

Lauren moaned
and turned her head in the direction of the voice. Her temples
throbbed. Lights glared overhead and flashed in the back of her
eyes. She flinched. A sharp pain ripped up her neck.

Gloved hands
touched her arms and her body drifted back on the bed. “There. Now
just relax.”

Where am I?

Dismal beige
walls surrounded her. A crooked picture of irises blurred. The
smell of antiseptic caught her nostrils and the room spun. A face
warped and distorted, swirled and twisted above her.

“What—hospital?” Lauren squeezed her eyes shut.

“University
Trauma Center. You’ve had an accident,” the nurse said.

Lauren’s throat
tightened. Images spun through her mind. Light. Rain. Metal. A
van...

“My father.
Where’s my father?”

“He’s across
the hall. He’ll be fine.”

Thank God.

Footsteps.
Heavy footsteps.

“How’s she
doing?”

That
voice, gentle and familiar, wove through Lauren’s groggy
mind.
Am I
dreaming?
So much like
Eric’s. Not Eric, though. He’d left her years ago.

“Pretty
battered up. A mild concussion and her wrist is sprained. They say
she just clipped the tree in that fancy car. If it had been
head-on, we’d have quite a different outcome.”

“Glad to hear
she’s okay.”

No, Lauren had
never forgotten his voice. Now that voice, deep and rich, whirled
around her. She opened her eyes.

His face
blurred, and yet she felt the need to lift her arms toward the
fuzzy outline.

Features bent
and twisted, for a second became clear. Brown eyes stared down at
her then faded away. “Eric?”

“In the
flesh.”

What was he
doing here? As far as she knew he was still working homicide.
Lauren grasped the bed-rails and tried to sit up. Fire shot through
her body and she slumped back, defeated. Though her head throbbed,
reflected light glimmered over his olive skin, his smile shone down
on her.

Another strike
of pain stabbed at her temples. “My head is killing me.”

“I bet it is.
I’m happy to see you’re still in one piece. Christ, you could’ve
been killed.”

His words
registered on her dizzied senses, the tone of his voice, edged with
concern. He sat beside her and placed a cool cloth across her
forehead. The tips of his fingers brushed against her cheek, gentle
and caring.

His citrus and
woodsy scent was familiar and made her feel safe. Lauren looked at
him. His dark brown hair fell at the back of his neck a bit longer
than she remembered. He looked great, but tired. Odd how their
paths crossed again. Fate? Maybe.

“You must have
stopped drinking otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Been sober for
three and half years.”

“I’m glad. I
liked you when you were sober.”

The hospital
room door creaked open.

“Miss
Taylor?”

Lauren yanked
the blanket to her chest. “Yes?”

Eric touched
her arm. “It’s okay. He’s with me.”

An untrimmed
moustache almost completely covered the man’s thick top lip. He
looked like he was right out of the seventies.

“I’m Pete
Hallman. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Eric, will you
stay with me?”

“Sure.” He
nodded to his partner.

Pete grabbed
the metal chair from the corner of the room and sat beside the bed.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pen and notebook. “Can
you tell us what you remember? If you need to stop, just say
so.”

She drew a deep
breath. “Dad came to my house around seven. We chatted for a while,
and then we left for the Four Seasons for dinner.”

“Did you notice
if you were followed to the restaurant?”

“No.”

Pete scribbled
in his notebook. “Any idea what time you left the restaurant?”

God, her head
was going to explode. She chewed back a sob. “I think—ten-thirty.
I’m not sure.”

Eric’s brown
eyes met hers. “It’s okay, take your time. What happened next?”

“There was a
van. He was driving too fast for the lousy road conditions. I
decided to pull over and let the driver pass.”

“Did he?” Pete
asked.

“Yes. Then I
pulled back onto the road and then the van came back.”

Eric stood.
“You sure it was the same van?”

“Positive.
That’s about the only thing I am sure about.”

“Color of the
van?”

“Blue. Maybe
black. And larger than a minivan. Everything happened so fast and
it was so dark.” She glanced at Eric. Two deep lines of worry
appeared across his forehead, feather-like wrinkles formed around
his eyes. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

His eyebrows
raised. “The precinct got a call about twenty minutes before the
accident. The caller said to keep a close eye on prosecutor,
Stephen Taylor and the new district attorney. Said they might run
into some problems.”

She took a
quick sharp breath. “Jesus. This has to do with the trial. I can
feel it.”

Eric looked at
Pete, and then back to her.

Pete flipped
the notebook shut. “You know what you’re suggesting?”

“It’s possible,
right? At this point Valdina has nothing to lose.”

“Possible. But
if the mob wants you dead, you’re dead.” Eric said.

“Well if they
wanted to scare us, they sure as hell succeeded.”

“It’s not too
often the mob sends out a warning. In any event, we haven’t got any
other leads at this point.”

“I’ll have Dad
stay with me. He won’t be happy but I think it’s better if we stick
together.”

“Good idea.
We’ll have an officer posted at your house.” Pete pulled out a
business card from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “If you
think of anything else or need to get in touch with us, call, day
or night.” He stood and slid the notebook back into his jacket, and
then left the room.

God, she was
alone with Eric. The only sound was the air conditioner humming
overhead. Talk about awkward. She’d forgotten how tall he was. He
made her appear petite even though she was five- foot-eight, a good
four inches shorter than him. Their eyes locked.

“God, I must
look like hell.” Lauren looked away.

“You do. You’ve
got one nasty bruise on the side of your forehead. Looks like the
one you got from the guy who tried to mug you in Central Park.
Remember?”

“
I do.”
She smiled. “How could I forget? You saved me. If you hadn’t, we
would never have met.”
And here we are again.
She fiddled with the elastic bandage around her
wrist. “I’m sorry about Duffy. He was quite the
character.”

Eric slipped
his hands into his jeans pockets. “Yeah, he was. He was a good man.
A good father.”