Secure Location (9 page)

His cell phone was ringing as he walked back to the car. He glanced at the number and recognized it. As quick as that, his stupid heart started to beat faster. Not so long ago, he’d gotten a couple of these calls every day. Just a quick check-in, a sweet
I was thinking of you.
“Hi, Meg,” he said.

“I got your message from Charlotte,” she said. Her tone was brisk, businesslike.

He could see her sitting at her fancy wood desk, her short hair pushed behind her ears, maybe a half-empty cup of coffee at her side. No. Scratch that. She’d given up coffee. Just one small sign of how much had changed.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Fine. Busy day,” she said. “How’s it...uh...going for you?”

“Pretty good. I have run into a snag with Troy Blakely and Tom Looney, though. I need more information on them. Previous addresses. Past employers. Stuff that would either be on their employment applications or maybe even background check authorization forms.”

She didn’t respond.

“You still there, Meg?”

“I’ve already given you a lot of information. It doesn’t seem right that I would dig deeper into confidential files to help myself.”

Meg had always been a rule-follower. Had never wanted to use her position to her advantage. Once, when she’d gotten pulled over for a busted taillight, he’d been pissed off that she hadn’t mentioned to the cop that her husband was also one of Chicago’s finest. It was practically a guarantee that she’d have driven on, ticket-free. Everybody did stuff like that.

Not Meg.

“Look, I’m not trying to steal either one of their identities. Once I find them and know that they’re not behind this, I’ll have short-term memory problems and everything I know will be forgotten.”

She sighed. “I’ll have to get the file from the human resources department. Their offices are down the hall.”

“I’ll hold,” he said.

Eight minutes later, he had information he hoped would help. He thought he had enough time to check out a couple of Blakely’s previous employers before he needed to head back to the hotel. “In case I need more information, what time are you leaving the office?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t being too obvious.

“By four. I need time to get dressed for the dinner. I’ll have to take a cab to the event since my car is still out of commission.”

She wouldn’t be in the cab alone. But he didn’t want to have that argument now. “Okay. I’ll see you later,” he said.

He programmed the address of Smitty’s Gemstones into his GPS. Blakely had worked security for Smitty’s before joining BJM. The store was in downtown San Antonio, nestled between other small retailers. When he opened the door, the lighting was dim, the carpet had seen better days and the man standing inside, arms folded across his chest, didn’t look friendly.

Cruz ignored the guy and walked toward the older woman standing behind the counter. Here the lighting was a little better but dim enough that a customer might have difficulty picking up any flaws in the massive amount of jewelry and loose gemstones stuffed in the glass display cases.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her tone was businesslike, indicating she liked buyers, not lookers. She was on the downside of fifty and had rings on every finger.

“I hope so,” Cruz said, flashing her a smile. “I’m looking for somebody who used to work for you. Troy Blakely.”

The woman frowned. “A friend of yours?”

Cruz went with his instinct and shook his head. “I’ve never met him. But I want to talk to him about some trouble a friend of mine is having.”

“Is he behind this trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Cruz said. This woman looked like she could smell a line a mile away.

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. I think the guy has a screw loose. But I can’t help you. I haven’t seen him since he quit a year ago.”

“What did he do to make you think he had a screw loose?”

The woman shook her head. “I caught him going through my files, writing down home addresses of people who’d left jewelry here to be appraised. When one of those houses got broken into, I figured he needed to go.”

“Did you tell the police?”

The woman shook her head. “First of all, I didn’t have any proof. Second of all, it would have been bad publicity for the store.”

Cruz wasn’t surprised and truth be told, not overly critical. He understood why people didn’t want to become involved. Maybe the woman had been afraid of Blakely and worried that he’d turn on her if he suspected that she’d reported him to the police. Certainly odder things happened. Every day. “And you haven’t seen him since then?”

“Nope.”

It was another dead end. He was getting tired of them. “Thank you for your time,” he said.

“No problem.” The woman floated her hand in the air, gesturing toward the display cases. “Nobody at home you’d like to buy a small gift for?”

Over the years, he’d bought Meg an engagement ring and maybe a few pairs of earrings for Christmas or her birthday. He could certainly have done better. He glanced around, and walked over to a case where the lighting was better, the presentation nicer. A necklace caught his eye. It was a large blue stone, surrounded by small diamonds.

“That’s my good stuff, honey. I hope she’s worth it.”

Twenty minutes later he was back at the hotel. It was ten minutes before four. He parked, practically jogged to Meg’s office, and didn’t really relax until he saw that the security guard was still sitting outside. “Hi, Tim,” he said. “How’d it go today?”

The young man shrugged. “Fine.”

“Nothing unusual?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, I’ll take it from here,” Cruz said.

“Sounds good to me. I always like getting out a little early on Friday nights.”

Cruz opened the office door. Charlotte was standing at the copy machine, her back to the door. She glanced over her shoulder. “Mr. Montoya?” she said, her tone even more severe than when Meg had introduced them this morning. “I didn’t realize that Meg expected you back.”

“I got done a little early and thought I’d check in. Everything okay here?”

“Yes,” she said, as if terribly insulted that he thought that she was lax enough to allow anything bad to happen on her watch. She waved her hand toward Meg’s office. “She is just finishing up a meeting with Mr. Slater.”

Cruz glared at the closed office door. Yeah, meeting. Right. “Mind if I have a seat?” he asked, nodding his head toward one of the leather chairs in the small waiting area.

“Of course not,” she said. She finished making her copies and returned to her desk. She carefully labeled several file folders and stacked everything neatly on the corner of her desk. “I guess Meg is lucky to have her own private investigator,” she said. “Very convenient.”

“I don’t think there’s anything convenient about having both your car and your apartment trashed,” he said.

“You’re right. It’s all shocking, really. The world is a bad place sometimes.”

Her words were fine but there was something that wasn’t. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. And that worried him. His obsession with finding Meg’s tormentor was screwing with his normally good judgment.

Meg’s office door swung open. Slater had his back to Cruz, his arm braced against the office door, like he was posing for the cover of
GQ.
“Good luck tonight,” Slater said.

“I’m nervous,” Meg said. Her voice was faint, as if she was still behind her desk. “I’ve never talked to five hundred people before.”

“Just look out and imagine the audience naked—they won’t be nearly as intimidating. By the way,” he said as he chuckled, “I think the BJM table is near the front.”

Cruz wanted to cough up his lunch.

Meg laughed nervously. Cruz heard it but he was focused on Charlotte. She wasn’t laughing. Her lips were clamped together and she gripped an empty file folder so tightly that her fingers were turning white.

Slater turned, walked out, and Meg followed. She had a garment bag folded over one arm. Slater nodded at him but didn’t extend a greeting.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” Meg said. “I’m sure Charlotte took good care of you, though.”

“My pleasure,” Charlotte said. Her face was relaxed and she calmly laid the file folder on the corner of her desk with the others. She got up, walked over to the door and opened it. “Let’s get you out of here, Meg. You’ll need time to get ready.”

“You, too,” Meg protested. “You’re at the BJM table, right? I’m going to need you cheering me on.”

“I’ll be there. But if you have just a minute, Scott, I’ve got some invoices that need your approval.”

“Okay,” Scott said. “See you later, Meg.”

Cruz fell into step next to Meg. “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

“My dress for tonight. Fortunately, it had needed some alterations and when I’d picked it up earlier this week from the tailor, I’d left it hanging in my office closet. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have anything to wear tonight.”

“I can carry it,” he said.

“It’s not that heavy,” she said and continued walking. She hadn’t gone more than four steps when Cruz spoke again.

“Five hundred people. This is a bad idea, you know. Somebody wants to harm you and you’re going to be on a stage.”

“Behind a podium. Nobody is going to try anything there. Too many witnesses. Too much security in the room. I’ll take a cab there and back. I’ll be perfectly safe.” They stopped in front of the elevators.

He didn’t look convinced and Meg knew she’d be wasting her breath if she kept on trying. Cruz had never been fond of situations where he didn’t have complete control. Even knowing that, she was still surprised when he said, “I’m going with you.”

He hated black-tie events. “No, you’re not. You can’t. You need a ticket.”

The elevator doors opened and they were inside the empty space. It felt small and tight—even more so because Cruz was crowding her, his big body close. She moved back, stopping when her back hit the rear wall. He stayed where he was, giving her a little space.

“I
have
a ticket,” he said. “I’ll be sitting next to you at the head table.”

She could feel her chest tightening up. “How did you manage that?”

Before he could answer, the elevator chimed and the doors opened. A young man and woman stepped inside. Cruz shifted slightly, putting himself between them and Meg.

Good grief. There wasn’t a chance that she was going to be able to shake him. He didn’t say anything until they got to their floor—just watched the other two passengers, who quite frankly, only appeared interested in each other.

When the elevator doors opened, he motioned for her to exit. He followed but didn’t speak again until they were inside her room. “I called Beatrice Classen this morning. I wanted to talk to her about the four ex-cons that have worked at the hotel.”

She gritted her teeth. “We discussed this.”

“I know. And I didn’t make any crazy accusations. I met with her and looked at the photos. Only two of the four were white. One of the two was a big guy, much taller and heavier than the person who pushed you. The other guy, Oscar Warren, was a possibility. No good alibi for last night but his time seems pretty well tied up for yesterday. He works at a food pantry.”

“So, Oscar is off the hook?”

“Nobody is off the hook until we find the guy for sure. Let’s just say that I’m moving on for right now.”

She shook her head. “He didn’t have a heart attack or anything when you started to question him?”

Cruz shook his head. “I was playing good cop. Used all my manners. Said please and thank-you.”

She rolled her eyes. “So that still doesn’t explain how you got a ticket for the event.”

“I told Beatrice that I was your husband and that I wanted to surprise you.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Didn’t have the same ring. I think she thought it was terribly romantic.”

Beatrice was retired, after a thirty-year career in bank management. Now she was devoting her time to A Hand Up. She’d also been married to the same man for her whole adult life. It stood to reason that she’d trip right over Cruz’s story and fall in love with the whole idea.

Cruz gave her a light tap on the arm. “Better get dressed,” he said.

She wanted to argue, maybe stomp her feet or bang her head against the wall. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Fine. We have to leave in thirty minutes,” she said.

Twenty-nine minutes later she knocked on the adjoining door. She’d taken a shower, fixed her hair, put on fresh makeup and slipped into her new dress.

Cruz didn’t answer the knock so she pushed the door open. The room was empty until Cruz walked out of the bathroom, playing with his tie.

Where is Waldo and what have you done with his cargo shorts?

Cruz wore a black tux, starched white shirt and burgundy cummerbund. His shoes were shined, his face shaved, and he smelled wonderful.

He looked so damn hot that she could feel vulnerable places tighten up in response. She felt unsteady and wondered if there was still time to raid the minibar.

He stared at her, his long, strong fingers still holding the ends of his tie, his dark cop-eyes telling her nothing.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she said. Her mouth felt dry and her brain was scrambled. She’d never seen Cruz in a tux. Even at their wedding, he’d opted for a dark suit. “I don’t think you had that in your duffel bag.”

He shook his head. “Got it this morning. Can you help me with this?”

No. It meant that she’d have to get even closer. His scent would linger with her, making her needy. She’d be squirming in her chair all night. It wasn’t the kind of lasting impression she’d hoped to make on the crowd.

“Sure,” she said. She took a deep breath before walking toward him. When they’d been married and he’d made detective, he’d complained relentlessly about having to wear a tie. She’d teased him that they almost managed to make him look civilized.

He’d begged for help and she’d become the resident expert. At night, he’d loosen the knot and slip the tie off, careful to make sure that all he needed to do for the next wear was reverse the steps. When it was time for the tie to be dry-cleaned, they did the whole routine all over again.