Riding Dirty (3 page)

After Cole disappeared around the corner, taking the staircase instead of the elevator, Mia retreated to the office.

Damon followed her in. “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“Was he disrespectful?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I can manage him,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

“If he lays one fucking hand on you—”

She kept her expression cool, though she was startled by his vehemence. Damon was the only person who knew her true identity outside of WITSEC. He acted as liaison between the program and their employer, the Riverside District Attorney’s Office. He was obsessive about his work, almost manic in his intensity. She suspected him of doing everything to excess. Drinking, womanizing, investigating. His attitude toward Cole went beyond that of an overzealous cop. He sounded possessive.

Like Mia, Damon was skilled at staying in control. He regained his composure, relaxing his bunched shoulders. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and brown eyes. His face was a combination of traits from a Mexican father who’d never been around and a white mother who’d died young. He probably needed therapy more than Cole.

“You don’t have to stand guard outside the door,” Mia said gently. “He won’t relax in here if you do.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Ken is right down the hall,” she said. There was a real parole officer in the building, which helped Cole’s cover. “I’m perfectly safe.”

Damon studied her for a moment, appearing conflicted. He didn’t comment on her stylish clothes or careful makeup. Maybe he
had
meant to dangle an attractive woman in front of Cole. She wouldn’t put anything past Damon, not even police brutality. He was ruthless in his pursuits.

“Do you have dinner plans?”

She gathered her belongings from the coffee table and walked behind the desk. “I thought I’d visit Mom for a few hours.”

He stuck his hands in his pants pockets and jangled his keys. His pent-up energy made her anxious. She was afraid he’d notice her unease and guess what she was up to. He had a way of examining people, looking beyond the surface.

“What you’re doing isn’t going to bring him back,” Damon said.

She paused in the process of stashing items in her satchel. Did he know? Had he been tracking her internet searches, reading her mind?

“Staying true to him isn’t healthy, Mia. You have to move on.”

He was talking about her refusal to have dinner with him, not her plot to avenge Philip. Releasing a slow breath, she placed her cell phone inside the leather pocket and secured the satchel straps. She had to get a grip on herself. “Screwing anything that moves isn’t the same as moving on.”

He shrugged, guilty as charged. “You’re the psychologist.”

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, softening her tone. He’d asked her out several times since she’d returned to California, and she always said no, even though she found him attractive. She wasn’t turned off by his promiscuity or his dirty investigative methods. What did she care if he roughed up some lowlife for tips? She was in no position to judge. He might not be a good man, but she wasn’t a good woman. Not anymore. What prevented her from accepting his dinner invitation had nothing to do with professional ethics or personal distaste. It was a simple matter of transference. Every time she looked at him, she saw her dead husband’s face.

Damon had investigated the home invasion robbery, and she’d known him for years. He was one of her only links to her past life, and that was comforting, but she would always associate him with loss, horror and trauma. She also wasn’t sure she could trust him. He’d sell out his own mother to solve a case—if he’d had one.

She donned a hat and sunglasses before they walked out of the building together. He said goodbye in front of her beige Prius. She glanced in her rearview mirror as she drove away, wondering if Damon’s interest in her would become a problem. The last thing she needed was him sniffing around her. He had an eye for bad girls and a nose for trouble.

She followed procedure by calling WITSEC before she left Indio. Her mother lived in a retirement community on the outskirts of Palm Springs, about thirty miles away. Mia rented a condo in nearby Cathedral City. There was a cluster of bustling desert towns in the area, which made it pretty easy to disappear here.

She stopped at an underground parking garage to switch vehicles. Then she continued to the retirement center. The precaution might be unnecessary, but she was happy to comply. Active members of the program weren’t allowed to see their loved ones at all. They couldn’t work in their choice of professions or live wherever they wanted. As a transitional member, Mia had more freedom. She didn’t need twenty-four-hour protection or constant check-ins anymore. After five years, she might be able to leave the program for good.

In a way, she was lucky she’d been left for dead. Because she
was
dead, legally. They’d buried Jane Doe in a coffin alongside Mia’s husband. Michelle Ruiz had been reborn as Mia Russo, aka Mia Richards.

Her husband, Philip, had stayed dead.

She turned off the air conditioner and lowered the windows as she drove down the lonely desert highway. It was still hot, but she wanted to feel the wind and the warmth of the setting sun on her skin. She wanted to feel
something
.

Her mind drifted back to the day she’d lost him. She usually tried not to think about it, but the session with Cole had jogged her memory. Cole had lost the person he loved most, too. For a moment, he’d shared her pain, and the weight of it had shifted off her heart. Lifted up to let her breathe again.

She’d regained consciousness in the guest room, nauseous and disoriented. Philip didn’t come for her, and that was terrifying. At some point, she rolled over and crawled into the hall. She felt like a ghost, or a zombie. Her hair was matted with blood. One of her eyes didn’t work, her head ached and her ankle throbbed. She didn’t trust herself to stand, so she continued down the hall on her hands and knees.

Philip was on the floor in the study. He’d been shot in the head. He was unmoving, unresponsive. She used his desk phone to call 911. Then she’d curled up next to his dead body and wept.

The first twenty-four hours after the robbery went by in a blur. She’d been interviewed by two detectives at the hospital. She was suffering from traumatic brain injury, in addition to post-traumatic stress. The details of the attack were fuzzy. After the third or fourth round of interrogations, she realized that
she
was their prime suspect. Philip had taken out a significant life insurance policy. As his wife, she was the sole beneficiary. The police seemed to think she’d hired a pair of hit men to murder her husband. Then Damon Vargas of the Riverside District Attorney’s Gang Task Force took over the investigation—and he believed her.

Damon arranged for her to have a cognitive interview, which was a psychological process designed to help witnesses remember details. She’d been able to form a clearer picture of her assailants. They were both big men, Philip’s age. One had salt-and-pepper hair. The other had dark, close-set eyes and a cursive tattoo on his wrist that began with the letter E.

“I don’t think they were gang members,” she’d said to Damon, after that interview.

“Why not?”

“They were white.”

“Most motorcycle club members are white,” he’d explained. “Some are organized criminals, like the mafia. They’re involved in everything from weapons dealing to armed robbery.”

She’d had no idea.

Damon had inquired about the antique motorcycle display Philip had hosted at the gallery the month before. It had attracted a large crowd of hard-core bikers. Hell’s Angels types. Tattoos and alternative lifestyles were common in Southern California, so Mia hadn’t been disturbed by the guests. The previous year’s display of historical vibrators and vintage BDSM equipment had drawn an equally colorful group.

According to Damon, the masks she’d seen on the perpetrators were protective gear worn by motorcycle riders. He showed her pictures of men involved with Riverside’s White Lightning Motorcycle Club. She immediately identified one of its members.

“That’s him,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ll never forget his eyes.”

Damon came back with another set of photos. Mia recognized her attacker in all of them. “His name is Gordon ‘Gonzo’ Lowe, and he’s the president of White Lightning.”

“He’s their leader?”

“Yes.” Damon nodded, showing one last photo. It was a recent shot of Gordon Lowe displaying his wrists. They were bare.

“Oh my God,” she said, covering her mouth with one hand. Had she imagined the tattoo, or gotten the two men mixed up?

“I believe this is the man who attacked you,” Damon said. “It fits his MO. He does home invasions. But you only saw half his face, and eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Yours might not hold up in court.”

“What does that mean?”

Damon leveled with her. “We need more evidence, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Until then, it’s better if he thinks you’re dead.”

And that was how she died alongside her husband. They’d even had a double funeral, and buried an unidentified body in her grave.

The evidence Damon was looking for never materialized. Mia spent two years in Arizona under WITSEC. They’d allowed her to pursue a doctorate in forensic psychology. She’d been working as a mental health counselor before the robbery, and she already had a degree. After she completed her studies, she’d begged to come back to California. Her mother lived in a facility in Palm Springs, and her health was failing. Mia had lost her father when she was twenty. She wanted to reunite with her mother before it was too late.

The program relented, and Mia became a transitional member. She returned to California with a new look, a new degree and a new identity. She was able to visit her mother once a week. She kept a low profile, counseling law officers and female inmates. But she didn’t feel recovered. If anything, she’d grown more and more disconsolate.

She couldn’t go on like this, waiting for justice. She refused to be passive and cower in fear forever. What did she have to lose in pursuing the men who’d killed her husband? Nothing.

She had nothing.

A few weeks ago, Damon had handed her a solution in the form of Cole Shepherd’s file. Damon coordinated with WITSEC to ensure her safety on the job. He was one of the reasons she’d been cleared to return to California. He hadn’t cleared this particular assignment with WITSEC, however. He’d known they wouldn’t approve. She’d studied the file, pausing at the list of Cole’s enemies: the Aryan Brotherhood and White Lightning.

“Will that be a problem?” Damon had asked.

“No,” she’d replied coolly. More of an asset, really.

Damon claimed he had a limited budget and needed someone who would work for free. He also thought Cole would be less combative with a female psychologist. Mia didn’t really care if Damon had ulterior motives. As long as he stayed out of her way, she’d stay out of his.

When Mia reached the Desert Breeze Assisted Living Center, she parked outside the main building. A blast of air-conditioning greeted her as she pushed open the front door. After signing in as a visitor for another resident, she continued to her mother’s room. She removed her hat and sunglasses on the way.

Her mother was delighted to see her, as always. “What a wonderful surprise,” she said in Spanish, greeting Mia with open arms. She used a wheelchair now, though she could still get around without it. Her hands were slender and wrinkled, but strong.

Mia released her and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

Her mother rattled off a list of mild ailments. Nothing serious, thankfully. Her main issue, other than mobility, was Alzheimer’s.

“I asked my daughter to bring me
crema de concha
. Do you know my daughter?”

“Yes,” Mia said, making a note of the request. “I’ll remind her.”

Her mother chatted about her day for a few minutes, and they watched her favorite
telenovela
together. Then Mia gave her a hug and said goodbye.

Before Mia left the center, she used the ladies’ room. As she washed her hands, she examined her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face looked the same as always. Her skin was still fair, her eyes brown. She had pleasant features, conveniently forgettable. The main difference in her appearance was her hair. It used to be red, falling to the middle of her back. Now it was shoulder-length and dark. She blended in easily with the crowd. Mia Richards looked more Latina than Michelle Ruiz ever had.

Her mother’s memory had been failing for years, and her lucid days were infrequent. She hadn’t recognized Mia in a long time. Even if she did, there was no danger in visiting. No one would ever believe Mia had been there.

It was sadly ironic. The only person Mia had left—her own mother, whom she loved with all her heart—didn’t know her anymore.

CHAPTER THREE

C
OLE PARKED HIS
bike behind the motel office.

They’d really fixed up the place while he was away. The Hidden Palms Hotel and RV Resort had been remodeled to resemble a miniature frontier town. There were two sparkling-new pools on opposite ends of the lot, one for RV campers and one for motel guests. The sign over the bar and restaurant said The Wild West Saloon, which was fitting. It was owned by his uncle, “Wild Bill” Shepherd.

Cole’s aunt Shawnee greeted him at the back door. She’d lived here and worked at the reception desk for as long as Cole could remember. He smiled as she put her arms around him. He’d missed this kind of embrace—soft, female, motherly. But his pleasure was tinged with other emotions. Unease, because they weren’t related by blood, and some of her past actions toward him hadn’t been motherly. Shame, because he’d responded to her touch before. And guilt. Because he was here to betray his family.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said, framing his face with her hands.

He didn’t think he was. She looked good, though. She always did. A little older, a few more lines creasing her forehead. But she kept her brown hair long and her figure slim. His uncle said she looked like Daisy Duke.