She Can Hide (She Can Series) (11 page)

After Derek went home, she let the dog out one last time. Across the backyard, Mr. Sheridan waved at her and walked up to the fence. Abby grabbed her jacket, stomped into a pair of boots, and went out to see what her cranky old neighbor wanted.

“Bad storm coming.”

“I know.” Abby clutched the lapels of her jacket together. “Do you need anything?”

“No, but thanks for asking.” Mr. Sheridan rubbed his gnarled hands together. “Not many people know how to be neighborly these days. I got extra rock salt in the shed if you need some.”

“Thanks.”

Mr. Sheridan jerked a thumb toward
Derek’s house. “The Tanner kid was in your yard again.”

“I know.” Abby smiled. “It’s all right. He walks the dog for me.”

“Long as it’s all right with you.” Mr. Sheridan thought everyone under the age of twenty was a “hoodlum” with intentions of robbery or vandalism, but he meant well.

“Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

“The weather keeps me in more than I’d like, but I try.” He shrugged. “You take care. Good night.”

“Good night.” Abby called Zeus and went back inside. She shed her outerwear and checked all her locks before going up to her bedroom. The door to the walk-in closet was open from Ethan’s search. She turned on the light and went inside. A small fireproof safe hunkered in the far back corner. Abby picked it up and carried it into the bedroom. Inside was her plan-of-last-resort. Spinning the combination to the correct numbers, she lifted the top. Tucked in a neoprene holster was her mom’s 9mm Glock. She ignored the envelope full of cash and the prepaid, unregistered cell phone that remained in the box.

Abby gripped the weapon in her right hand. The weight and feel was simultaneously comfortable and eerie. She hadn’t handled the gun since her mom overdosed. The kidnapping and trial had proved to be too much for Mom’s already precarious emotional state.

But she hadn’t left Abby without a legacy. Some women passed beauty tips down to their daughters. They instructed them in the art of applying mascara and lipstick. Others taught their girls to cook, leaving recipes as their lasting gift to their families.

Abby’s mom had taught her daughter to put a cluster of bullets into a torso-shaped target at twenty feet.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zeke parked his Camaro behind the Dumpster and hurried toward his room. His get-out-of-jail-free card had been a lucky break. But were a couple of years long enough for a certain client to forget about money spent and not earned? Too bad his release had been so public. It was hard to stay under the radar when he’d been in the paper. The list of affected inmates had been long, though. Maybe no one had noticed his name among the many.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The room was a bare-bones rat hole complete with bolted-down remotes and mystery stains on the carpet. But it was only temporary housing. Once the settlement from the county came through, Zeke could pay off his outstanding debt and move far, far away from New Jersey. He tossed his jacket on the bed and shivered. Enough wind blew through the window jambs to move the faded curtains.

Florida sounded good. Yeah. He was heading south. No more freezing his nuts off.

He cranked the thermostat on the wall to seventy-five. The unit on the wall shuddered, rattled, and wheezed out a pathetic cough of lukewarm air. Zeke knew the room temperature would barely budge.

The attorney he’d met with said the county would settle. His conviction had been based on tainted evidence, which was why it had been overturned. They’d fucked up, and they knew it. They wouldn’t want the expense of a huge lawsuit they couldn’t win.

It was only a matter of when and how much.

Zeke headed for the bathroom. The room was a friggin’ freezer, but the hot water heater worked just fine.

He stopped short at the gun muzzle in his face and the pair of dead eyes focused on him. “Hello, Zeke.”

Guess his client hadn’t forgotten. Zeke cursed himself. Lawsuit or not, he should have left for Florida the day he was released. Poor was better than broken kneecaps, missing fingertips, or worse.

“I can get the money.” Zeke backed up, hands in the air. He was going to be OK. Right? A dead man couldn’t repay debts, and money was the key to the universe. But the guy with the dead eyes was scary. “I’ll even pay interest.”

“Zeke, close the curtains.”

Zeke back-stepped and drew the heavy drapes across the window. Thick blackout fabric completely blocked the sunlight, showing his willingness to cooperate in good faith. “There. No one can see in.”

“Perfect,” Dead-eyes said. “This is a very private conversation.”

Ryland picked up his buzzing phone.

“I’ve handled the first issue,” Kenneth said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Moving on to number two.”

“Thank you, Kenneth.” Pleased, Ryland ended the call. He swiveled to stare out the glass wall of his office. The afternoon sun sparkled on the choppy sea with deceptive brightness. The sand below looked warm and inviting. But whitecaps dancing across the Atlantic exposed the truth. A frigid arctic wind turned the beach brutally cold.

Unfortunately, Kenneth’s phone call had been the highlight of his day. Completing the cessation of his last illegal business venture was proving to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

His intercom beeped. “Mr. Medina to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.” Ryland turned back to his office, to his work, and greeted one of his oldest business associates. He stood and extended a hand across his desk.

“Paul, always good to see you.” The lie slid out of Ryland’s mouth as easily as the sun disguised the frigid conditions on the beach. “Scotch?”

“Yes.” Paul inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “On the rocks. Thank you.”

Ryland went to the small bar in the corner. He filled two tumblers with ice and poured a generous shot of amber liquid in each.

Like Ryland, Paul Medina had aged since they’d both started out. Gray peppered Paul’s black hair, and his skin bore the craggy evidence of his enthusiasm for golf. Ryland studied his guest. Did his own eyes reflect the same detached brutality? Did others meet his gaze and flinch at the knowledge that no shred of mercy lived within?

Probably. God knew Ryland had earned his hardness with deeds that would cause nightmares in a compassionate human being.

“I didn’t know you were in town.” Ryland settled in his seat. “Don’t you usually stay in Miami until March?”

“I fly in now and then to keep tabs on the business.” Paul sat in one of the leather-and-chrome guest chairs and crossed his legs. He steepled his fingers and looked at Ryland over them. “You can’t trust anyone completely.”

Paul’s implication was clear, as was his disinterest in small talk, which suited Ryland just fine. He’d had enough bullshit as well.

Ryland leaned back in his chair. “What brings you to my office today, Paul? Surely you didn’t fly in from Miami just to talk about our grandchildren.”

“No. As I said, the trip is about business.” Paul’s black eyes flashed with annoyance. “Did you really think you could simply cease taking shipments?”

Ryland chose his words carefully because checking Paul for a wire would have been a direct insult.

“You had adequate notice.”

“And I warned you that there would be repercussions if you proceeded with your plan,” Paul snapped.

Ryland waved a hand. “You had plenty of time to find other avenues of distribution.”

“You cannot leave a hole in the delivery process.” Paul’s tone went colder than the ice cubes in his scotch. “And what about your sons? Don’t they deserve the same opportunities that made us what we are today?”

No. They deserved more. Ryland swallowed the words. His sons had never been part of that end of the company. They didn’t even know it existed. He’d groomed them to take over as CEO and CFO of the legitimate company.

“I made myself clear last year, Paul.” Ryland didn’t change his position. He remained comfortably reclined. “You knew this would be coming.”

“There are many others who depend on your company’s role in the industry. You’ve left us with a hole we cannot fill.”

“That isn’t true,” Ryland said. “There are plenty eager to step into place.”

“But trust hasn’t been established. The risks are too great to open the doors to new partners. You won’t reconsider?”

Ryland didn’t blink. “No.”

Paul stood. He set his glass on the desk with a final
clunk
. “Remember, Ryland. I’m not the only one you betray, just as you are not the only one at risk.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Abby watched the scrub pines flow past the truck window. After the trial and her mother’s death, she’d sworn she’d never come back here.

“This is where you lived before you moved to Westbury?” Ethan exited the Atlantic City Expressway and followed the sign toward Harris, where the county prosecutor’s office was located.

“Yes. I had a townhouse not far from here.” The well Faulkner had kept Abby in wasn’t far away either. Anxiety tumbled in her belly.

Harris, New Jersey, was one of the lesser-populated sections of the state. Located fifteen miles west of Atlantic City on the southeastern edge of the Pine Barrens, it was exactly what that name suggested: mostly barren and full of pine trees.

“Did you grow up here too?”

“Yes.”

“Was it always just you and your mom?”

Abby sighed. Her reluctance didn’t deter Ethan at all. “My father wasn’t around much. He’d pop in for an occasional check-in and give my mother money. Other than that, he didn’t want anything to do with my life.” She was about to say she couldn’t miss what she never had, but knew Ethan would see through her bravado. Abby had never experienced a loving father, but she had friends with real dads, fathers who threatened their dates and danced with them at their weddings.

“I’m sorry. Were you close to your mom?”

“She wasn’t naturally maternal, but she tried.” Abby had never doubted her mother loved her, even if she often seemed disconnected. Mom wasn’t the most affectionate person on the planet, but she’d taught Abby to shoot in grade school, and Mom would have fought to the death to protect her daughter. “She suffered from depression. Sometimes she drank too much. I think she loved my father, and the fact that it was a one-way street took its toll. She never dated. Not once.” Abby rested her head on the glass of the passenger window. Talk about an overshare. Why did she tell him that? What was it about him that lowered her defenses?

Following a command from the GPS, Ethan turned left. He drove in silence for a few minutes. “Did I tell you I live with my mother?”

She lifted her head and looked at him. Was this a you-showed-me-yours-so-now-I’ll-show-you-mine thing? And why did the mutual sharing bother her even more than her own too-much-information slip? It was as if they were bonding. “No.”

A wry, close-lipped smile crossed his face. “I do. My father had a heart attack and died at fifty. I was a New York City cop at the time. My younger twin brothers were still in high school, and my mom has rheumatoid arthritis. It was either move home or make her sell the farm. She loves that farm.”

“You gave up your career for your family?”

“Not really. I’m still a cop.” Ethan squirmed.

“New York City and Westbury are barely on the same planet.”

“True.” Ethan laughed. “But it turned out all right in the end. Cam and Bryce had a hard time accepting Dad’s death. We all did. Grieving together was the best therapy.”

“How are your brothers now?” Abby asked. The loss of her mother was still a hard lump in the center of her chest. She’d done her grieving alone.

“They’re doing great. They go back to college tomorrow.” Ethan followed another directional prompt from his cell phone, turned into the municipal complex, and parked in front of the prosecutor’s office. “Are you ready?”

No.
The unexpected intimacy formed between them during the long drive had left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Their tenuous bond felt fragile and tender. A connection so sweet shouldn’t be soured by the news that waited for her in the prosecutor’s office.

But such was her life. Beautiful sunny days were always followed by a storm.

“Yes.” Abby opened her door and stepped out onto the asphalt. A freezing wind whipped across the open space. So much for the temperature being milder near the coast. She zipped her down jacket. At least there wasn’t any snow on the ground.

Ethan walked at her side. His busy blue eyes scanned the parking lot as he steered her toward the building. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather bomber jacket as black as his hair, his casual attire didn’t camouflage his cop nature.

Inside, Abby gave her name to the receptionist. She rubbed her hands together to warm them and dropped into a chair. Despite the cold, nervous sweat dripped between her shoulder blades. She took off her jacket and draped it over her arm. Ethan took the upholstered chair next to her. He took her hands between his, which were absurdly hot considering how cold it was outside.

“Ms. Foster, Mr. Whitaker will see you now.” In addition to the prosecutor being replaced, the leggy brunette receptionist was new. She crossed the room and opened her boss’s door. Porcelain skin, even white teeth, and dark red lips lent her a vampire-like sexuality. Where was the older woman who ran the office for the last prosecutor?

Abby stood. Next to her, Ethan put his hand on the small of her back. Warmth seeped through her blouse and steadied her as they entered the office. Behind a scarred desk, a tall blond man in his late forties smoothed his tie and stood as they approached.

“Dan Whitaker.” He held out a hand.

Abby shook it and introduced Ethan.

From his shined shoes to his
GQ
hair, the new chief prosecutor was way too perfect to be honest.

At Whitaker’s gesture, Abby sank into the worn leather wing chair opposite his desk. Ethan dropped his hand from her back and took the other chair. She instantly missed the contact. Her hand drifted to her collarbone as she waited for Whitaker to explain his lack of communication. Three years ago she’d spent hours sitting in this same seat being prepared to give testimony, but this afternoon the once-familiar space felt like foreign territory.

And Whitaker felt like the enemy.

Which was ridiculous. The man hadn’t spoken yet, and even though they’d never met, they were on the same side.

Determined to conceal the panic crawling up her throat, she set her hands on her lap and intertwined her fingers to anchor them. No amount of willpower could stop the sweat that seeped through her pores.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Ms. Foster?” At Abby’s mute nod, the receptionist pivoted on a narrow heel and withdrew.

Whitaker rounded his desk and posed on its edge, looking down at the seated Abby and Ethan. Superior body positioning. Well done. Score one for the new prosecutor.

Whitaker gave Abby a solemn stare. “I’d like to offer my apologies. You should have been informed about Faulkner’s release. We’ve had quite a bit of staff turnover. I looked into the matter. Your new telephone number wasn’t in our records.”

“What about the VINE system?” Ethan asked. “The whole purpose of automating the victim notification system was to eliminate human error.”

Whitaker shrugged. “Any system that size can have an occasional glitch.”

Glitch?
That’s all she was to this man? An unfortunate computer error?

Anger locked Abby’s breath in her chest. She struggled to inhale enough air to respond. “I don’t understand. Faulkner wasn’t supposed to be eligible for parole yet. What happened?”

Whitaker crossed his arms in front of his chest. Silver cufflinks shimmered. “A few months ago, a state lab technician was convicted of tampering with evidence. A clerk from this office was also implicated. Every defendant whose evidence one of those two individuals handled filed a challenge to his conviction. Unfortunately, this included your case.”

And explained why the prosecutor’s office had cleaned house. Whether or not they were truly responsible, someone had to pay the public-image piper.

Except for a slight, polite frown, Whitaker’s flawless face remained devoid of expression. Either he didn’t really care or his facial muscles had been Botoxed into submission.

Whitaker’s predecessor would never have blindsided her like this. Mark Bailey had kept her apprised of everything. Light glinted off Whitaker’s gelled hair as he leaned closer, reaching to rest a manicured hand on Abby’s shoulder. Unable to retreat any further in the high-backed chair, Abby gritted her teeth. His touch felt metaphorically slimy. She’d need a decontamination shower to get rid of the taint.

“Does anyone know where Faulkner is?” Ethan glared at Whitaker’s hand.

The prosecutor put it back on his thigh. “Faulkner wasn’t paroled. He was released. His conviction was overturned. Without the physical evidence, we decided there was no point in retrying his case.”

“So he isn’t required to report in to anyone,” Ethan finished in a dead tone.

“Right,” Whitaker said. “After all, you never saw his face. You only recognized his voice. He never admitted his guilt. It isn’t likely a jury will convict a man based solely on the sound of his voice.”

Abby couldn’t process the news. “But there was other evidence.…”

“Not enough for a conviction.” Whitaker blinked.

Abby’s stomach heaved. One hand shot up to cover her mouth. Whitaker slid backward on the edge of his desk, his mask cracking with revulsion for an instant.

She swallowed, sucked a deep breath in through her nose, and let it out through pursed lips. The cut on her temple stung. She touched the bandage.

“Are there any records of family or last known address?” Ethan asked.

Whitaker’s voice turned sour. “I can’t give out personal information. Nor can I allow you to harass Faulkner, even if you are a police officer. You are out of your jurisdiction, Officer Hale, and legally, Faulkner is now an innocent man. His conviction was wiped away as if it never happened.”

Abby took another deep breath.
Oh God
. He really was out. And not just out, but free to do as he liked. No check-ins with a parole officer. No reporting requirements. Nothing. He could be anywhere. Faulkner had accomplished what Abby was unable to do. He’d wiped his slate clean.

Ethan got up and moved to stand behind her chair, positioning himself eye to eye with Whitaker. “Someone tried to kill Ms. Foster last Friday.”

Ethan rested both hands on her shoulders. The weight of them anchored her. She reached across her body and put her hand on top of his.

Apprehension flickered in the prosecutor’s eyes. “I don’t see what that has to do with Mr. Faulkner’s release.”

Abby opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. What could she say? The only retort readily available in her brain was,
Seriously, are you an idiot?
Voicing it wouldn’t gain them any cooperation. Not that they were getting much now, but animosity from the prosecutor’s office wouldn’t help matters.

Ethan squeezed her shoulders in a silent
I got this
assurance. “It seems convenient that he was released a few weeks before Ms. Foster was attacked.”

“Or it’s just a coincidence.” Whitaker lowered his honed body into the chair and picked up a file from the bin on his desk. Their interview was over. “There are lawsuits pending against the county because of the situation. I can’t discuss it any further.”

Ethan’s fingers tightened. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Ethan barely kept up as Abby bolted from the heated building into the chill of the parking lot. The heels of her boots echoed on the pavement. A bus drove past. Lingering exhaust fumes smelled harsh after their meeting with Whitaker, as if the air was tainted by his message that Abby wasn’t worth the effort of retrying her kidnapper.

She stumbled. Ethan caught her by the elbow. He wrapped an arm around her waist, slowing her down as they approached his truck.

“Easy.” He opened the door and helped her into the passenger seat. Her hands were trembling, and tears welled up in her eyes. Ethan rounded the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine, he blasted the heat and aimed the vents at Abby.

She fumbled with her purse, opening it and pulling out a travel packet of tissues. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologize.” Ethan quelled the desire to go back into Whitaker’s office and knock a couple of his perfect teeth out.
What a dick.

Abby blotted her eyes and nose. She covered her eyes with one hand and slumped against the armrest.

Ethan swiveled in his seat. He lifted her hand from her face. Her eyes blazed with raw despair. “You’ve been kidnapped twice and poisoned once. You escaped from a car submerged in a frozen river and found out a former assailant has been prematurely released. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you look for answers. You are one of the toughest people I know.”

“This last week has felt like I’m skiing on ice, just barely scraping enough traction to get through the next turn.” She sniffed and exhaled through pursed lips, clearly seeking composure. Abby needed to be in control. He wondered how many times in her life had she been at someone else’s mercy.

He leaned across the console and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him, silent and still for a few minutes.

The cab warmed, and Abby stopped trembling. With a deep breath, she sat up. “We need to find Faulkner.”

Ethan’s thoughts echoed Abby’s, but he wanted to shield her from this new threat as much as he wanted to solve her case. “Are you sure you’re up for it right now? I could take you home and come back another day.”