Protecting Justice (The Justice Series Book 4) (5 page)

Reaching out, she felt for the nightstand. Where was her cell phone? Her fingers found a book Heather had been reading, the TV remote, the lamp.

No phone.

She’d left it downstairs.

Fight or flight?

Flight meant going out the second story window and down the fire escape. Smart, but no way she was running away.

Find a weapon
.

The lamp. The base was fat, making the lamp heavy to hold, but it was all she had. She ripped the cord from the wall socket.

“Whoever you are, you better be prepared for a fight,” she yelled as she wound the cord around the lamp base so it didn’t trip her. Her voice sounded strong and sure even though she was shaking. “I’m armed and—”

She was in mid-turn, mid-sentence, when something struck the back of her head. She pitched forward, stepping in the broken glass, her body slamming into the chest of drawers and then ricocheting backward.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a shadowy figure right before a fist connected with her ribs. Off balance, she still managed to throw the lamp and heard a grunt when it glanced off his body as she fell sideways.

Her triumph was short-lived. In the next second, he slammed the side of her head into the nightstand. Pain exploded behind her right ear and a buzzing filled her ears.

Then everything went black.

When she woke, the room had lightened. She was lying on the floor, broken glass scattered around her. The room spun as she pushed upright and she had to cling to the edge of the nightstand until her vision cleared.

Her tongue felt thick, her body moving in slow motion as she shifted her position. The drawers of the dresser had been yanked out, the contents sent flying. The closet door was open, her sister’s conservative suits lying helter-skelter on the floor.

The safe
.

Forcing herself up onto the bed, she focused on breathing and not passing out. She rubbed the back of her neck and concentrated on that damn ticking clock just so she wouldn’t cry. After a minute, she felt strong enough to make her way to the closet.

Someone had tried to move the safe, she could see from the indentions in the carpeting now showing. But the steel fire safe weighed over three hundred pounds. It would take the Hulk or a small army to move it.

She was pretty sure there had only been one man.

One man who’d been searching for something.

Was he a common thief who’d heard about Heather’s death and expected the place to be empty? Or was he someone far more sinister? Someone who wanted what was in that safe?

It took too long to get downstairs because she had to sit on her butt and scoot down each step one by one, but her stomach was rolling and her right eye refused to focus.

She didn’t need 20/20 vision to see the mess the intruder had left in the living room. He’d been thorough after knocking her out, upending furniture, removing the pictures from the walls. The books on the bookcase—a collection of history and political biographies—lay scattered over the floor. Her sister’s meager DVD collection of romantic comedies had joined them.

At least the front door was shut. Fallyn stumbled over and sent the deadbolt home. The locks still worked; the burglar hadn’t damaged them. He’d disabled the security system—or had he? She couldn’t remember if she’d set it before she’d gone to bed.

Leaning her forehead against the doorframe, she punched in the code.

By the time she made it to the kitchen and her cell phone, she was sweating, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the phone.

She had to call the police. Settling into a chair, she started to dial 9-1-1. That’s when her eyes landed on the business card lying on the table.

Tony Gerard. He’d left it there “in case.”

She rubbed her finger over the raised lettering. Whatever was going on with her sister and the tablet, Fallyn knew she was going to need professional help. The police had to be notified about the break-in, but she doubted there was much they could do for her except file reports and offer useless platitudes. She’d bet money on the fact the intruder had left no fingerprints, no DNA. And she certainly couldn’t share her suspicions about the tablet with them.

It took three tries for her to dial the number correctly. When she finally heard Gerard’s deep, powerful voice on the other end, she nearly wept with relief. Her head was pounding, her pulse racing. When she found her voice, it came out ragged and garbled.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “Mr. Gerard?”

“Who is this?”

“I know it’s too early to be calling, but I have a situation—”

“Fallyn?”

He recognized her voice. “Yes, it’s me. I…”

She heard bedsprings groan, and in her mind, she saw him sitting up. “Are you okay?”

No, she wasn’t okay. She was scared, really scared.

Control. She just needed to exert some control.
Work the case
. “I think I may need your services.”

She heard running water on his end. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain when you get here.”

There was a slight, telling pause. “I’ll be there in ten. Are you safe?”

Was she? “I’ll be fine until you arrive,” she said, eyeing a set of butcher knives on the counter across the room. She didn’t expect the intruder to come back so soon, even though it appeared he hadn’t found what he was looking for. “But I could use some coffee. As strong and as black as you can get it.”

“Coffee, huh? Okay, coffee is doable.” Was that laughter lacing his voice? “Hang tight.”

Coffee wasn’t the only thing that was doable, Fallyn decided as she disconnected and stumbled to the counter to arm herself.

Any man who looked like Tony Gerard and would come running with coffee in hand at five in the morning was definitely going on her doable list.

* * *

Tony knocked on Heather Pasche’s front door, a giant black coffee from his favorite Dunkin’ Donuts at the ready. Yeah, he had a thing for donuts and coffee and the guys at the Court Police would rib him endlessly with cops and donuts jokes. He didn’t have the fat gut though. Never would. He logged rigorous hours in the gym, damned near killing himself pumping loads most men couldn’t budge. It wasn’t about ego or being a gym lug. For him, the screaming endorphin release quieted the endless chatter in his brain, the obsessing over what was expected of him and what he should do, or be, or hope for. All those emotions—those fucking little bastards—buried inside him, picking at him. Waiting…

Forget it.

He knocked on the senator’s door a second time and waited. Around him, the April morning mist gave off an eerie vibe and he glanced down the quiet street where DC traffic had yet to fully explode. He loved this time of day. Darkness hadn’t surrendered and the chill in the air was enough to bring back thoughts of his father and their early morning fishing trips. They’d put on their gear and hats and hop into Dad’s battered outboard fishing boat for a few hours. Always in the morning before Dad left for work and Tony for school.

At ten, he never minded getting up at oh-dark-hundred for fishing. School, yes. Fishing, no.

Footsteps from inside the house sounded and he turned back, waiting for Fallyn to let him in.
She’d better check that door before opening it.

From the corner of his eye he spotted the curtain in the front window sway.
Good girl
.

“It’s me,” he said. “Tony.”

Just in case she didn’t recognize the guy on the doorstep who’d promised her strong coffee.

Numbnuts.

The door came open, but she stood behind it, peeping at him.

Hiding.

And, yeah, his shit-meter went bee-zerk. Still holding the coffee, he slid into the door opening and shut the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yep. You bet. Good morning and all that.”

Nothing in her voice made a believer out of him. The second he was clear of the door, she threw the bolt, her hands visibly trembling and—yeah—something had her rattled.

“Fallyn, what’s wrong?”

She flipped the hallway light, illuminating the interior of the townhouse.

What the hell?

The sunken living room, the space that less than 24 hours ago had nearly given him hives with its neatness, was trashed. Whoever had ripped through there did it with gusto.

Cushions tossed, tables upended, photos knocked from walls. And the bookcase? That bastard had been cleared, its contents splashed across the gleaming hardwood floors. Books, DVDs, a few CDs, all of it merging into one hell of a mess.

He set the coffee on the foyer side table and whipped back to her. “Who did this?”

“I don’t know. Someone broke in. A man.”

“Did you see him?”

She shook her head. “Not really. Just shadows.”

“What time was this?”

“Two-ish. I took a bath, fell asleep, and woke up to someone coming up the stairs.”

Pig that he was, a vision of Fallyn, her perfect rack and trim hips lounging bare-assed in a tub shattered his mind.
Focus here, dummy.

He stepped closer and she immediately inched back, reclaiming her personal space. She’d done that yesterday when he’d touched her, the whole thing a clear indication she did not like to be touched. Add that to his Fallyn checklist.

“Tell me what happened.”

She pointed up the stairs. “The creaking stairs woke me up. He came up to the bedroom.”

“Did you call 911?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “I left my phone downstairs to charge and Heather didn’t keep a house phone in her bedroom. I grabbed the lamp so I’d have some kind of weapon.”

Damned fool woman. He admired her spunk, but if the intruder were armed, she’d be riddled with bullet holes. And that would have left both twin sisters dead within 24 hours.

He shook his head, but bit down and forced himself to keep his trap shut. Any comment he’d make, most likely, wouldn’t be a welcome one.

“Hey,” she said, obviously cluing in to his disapproval. “I had to do something. I wasn’t going to lay there and let some thief rob my sister’s home.”

“You could have gotten hurt.”

She stared at him for a long second, but he’d be damned if he could read anything in her stony cheeks. She glanced away, took in the wall, the bannister, the steps before her gaze landed on the floor. Whatever caught her eye must have been fascinating because she stayed focused on it.

“Fallyn?”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

Finally, she looked up and—
ah, dammit.

Please, God, don’t let him have…

His neck muscles coiled and locked. “Did he hurt you?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Crap.”

She lifted her t-shirt revealing the start of a nasty blackish bruise.

Tony gawked, brought his hands up, and gently touched the undamaged skin around it. “Mother fucker. He hit you?”

When she drew back, he dropped his hands. “It’s worse than it looks. I got one good lick in with the lamp before…”

If the bruise were the worst of it, they’d gotten lucky. Really lucky. “What happened? He didn’t—” Tony waved one hand.

“Rape me? God no.”

The tension in his neck blew apart and he ran one hand over his face, exhaled a couple of times to get his head straight.

“He slammed my head against the nightstand. Pow! Lights out. I didn’t wake up until just a bit ago.”

“Jesus!” Screw not touching her. She’d just gotten her ass kicked and he wasn’t supposed to touch her? The guy could have killed her.

He closed in, put both hands on her head and gently turned her so he could take a look. She flinched and—bam—he let go. That fast. She didn’t like his hands on her. Was it him or any man in general?

“It’s a lump,” she said. “That’s all.”

“Any double vision?”

“No.”

“You sure? We should get it checked. Might be a concussion.”

“No. I’m fine. It just…hurts. And I don’t have time for that. My sister’s funeral…my dad…I have things to do. I’m not letting this jerk get the best of me. Not when I intend to give my sister the service she deserves.” She waved her arms. “I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but the filth that did this will not take that from her. No way.”

The woman had balls, an admirable sense of strength that wouldn’t let her be pushed around. A scrapper.

He’d always been a fan of scrappy women. Ones who knew their power and how to get what they wanted, whatever that might be.

“I get that,” he said. “But do you wanna crash in the middle of that service? You can make it perfect, but if you fall over, you’ll be miserable.”

She hesitated, just stood there staring at him like he was the antichrist. It’d be a miracle if she didn’t toss him out on his ass. “I’m not going to the hospital.”

“Didn’t say you had to. I’ll get someone to come here. While you’re getting checked, we get crime scene techs in here to process the place. Multitasking.”