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Authors: Cheryl Ann Smith

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BOOK: The Sweetheart Racket
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Teddy was a consummate con. He swooped in when the women were vulnerable. And if Honey collected on a lawsuit or insurance payout, he'd be all over that like a shark on blood in the water.
She hated him already.
Rick slept on.
Time ticked by slowly. She updated the file, played an online game of Scrabble, watched the sunset, and waited for the lights to go off in the office of Affordable U-Store. Finally, a shadowy figure walked from the small building to the Fiesta, climbed in, and drove off. The gate closed behind him.
“Rick, wake up.” She poked him.
One gray eye opened. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Uh-huh. For the last three hours?”
He grinned and sat up, scratching his jaw. The back of his hair stuck up in an endearing sort of way. “I'd apologize but you're the one getting paid to watch the grass grow. I'm just along for the ride.”
“Then you want to stay in the car?”
“Not a chance.”
Taryn filled him in on Honey's widowhood, popped the trunk, and climbed from the Olds. She stretched her back as she walked around the car to retrieve her stakeout kit. Inside the plastic toolbox were all the things she needed when on stakeout, including a couple of extra water bottles and a half-finished paperback. She pulled out two flashlights and handed Rick the smaller one.
“An heir and a spare in case the batteries die in my Maglite. And these are for you.” She pulled out two pairs of latex gloves and gave him a pair. “In case we find evidence of anything criminal.” She collected a hand-sized black zipped pouch and closed the box. She took her Mace but left her Glock behind in its locked case. It would be hard to climb a fence with it and, after all, what kind of trouble could there be in a closed storage facility? “Let's go.”
It wasn't quite dark enough to hide them from neighbors in the duplex complex, so they waited for a break in traffic to run across the street and make their way to the field side of the fence. The vegetation was mostly wild grass and a few clumps of something taller, a weed with lacy white flowers on top. Queen Anne's Lace, she thought.
“Keep close to the fence,” she said softly.
Rick stepped in behind her. “Why are you whispering? This isn't the Watergate break-in. And I don't see guards or dogs.”
She glared over her shoulder. “Yes, but someone might call the cops if they hear us or see us lurking around. Why take that chance? I don't want to go to jail for breaking and entering.”
Summer and Jess would find her incarceration amusing.
“If you do get arrested, I'm sure Hunter will bake you a cake with a file in it, or throw you over the prison wall to freedom with his big biceps.”
Taryn squelched a snort of laughter, but shook silently with good humor. “I don't know why he bothers you so much. We only had one unsuccessful date.”
“He doesn't bother me.”
“Sure. You stick with that story.” She rounded the fence to the back of the property and looked for a place to go over. A row of parked campers and trailers would hide them from the street so she stopped there. She handed him the flashlight, grabbed the fence, and stuck her toe in a chain link. “I like that you're jealous. Just don't mark your territory by humping my leg or piddling on my boots. It would be embarrassing for both of us.”
He grunted in response as she pushed off the ground. His free hand clamped under her butt and shoved her up.
“I can do this myself,” she said and gripped the top of the fence for stability.
“I just want to be helpful.”
“How? By checking the fit of my jeans?”
“Something like that.”
The man did have big, strong hands. What do they say about a man with big hands? Never mind. She pivoted on top of the fence and jumped down on the other side.
She accepted the flashlights through the fence and waited for him to climb over. He dropped to the ground, grinned wickedly, and stepped close. Too close.
Taryn's stomach fluttered as he reached for her.
“Sweetheart, if I wanted to mark my territory, it would go something like this . . .” His hand slipped around her neck and his warm mouth came down on hers.
The kiss was firm and too brief but when he released her seconds later, she was all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Hunter who?” she said.
His soft laughter filled the night.
Chapter 8
D
amn, Taryn tasted good. As he'd suspected she would. Like cinnamon gum and a chocolate bar. No, really. Cinnamon. Chocolate. She'd been snacking while he was sleeping.
Maybe that was a normal part of her stakeouts. What wasn't part of a watching-the-grass-grow stakeout, and subsequent breaking and entering plan, was kissing his PI. That was all him. And he knew it was a mistake. But thinking that and being sorry were two different things; common sense warred with wanting to kiss her again. Neither came out a winner.
The kiss had stirred up the sleeping beast in his briefs and he had to step back or risk seducing her on the cracked concrete pad that ran beneath the nearby campers. Cement would be hell on his bare knees.
Better yet, a camper would make a perfect place for seduction. For a moment, he wondered if any of them were unlocked. Campers had beds, and privacy. If he ever got Taryn naked, he wanted a mattress, not cement, beneath them.
Before he could formulate a really hot fantasy about rocking the camper off its wheels, she quickly walked away with a sexy hip sway, leaving him and his lusty thoughts behind. But she couldn't distance herself from the reaction he'd felt with the kiss. She'd been just as into it as he'd been.
Oh, hell. He was falling into familiar patterns when it came to women. Through no fault of her own, Rick was spending more time thinking of Taryn than planning the demise of Teddy Brinkman. That's what got his mother into trouble the first time. His inattention.
Focus, Silva, he told himself. Focus.
A tall streetlight stood on each end of the lot, giving off just enough dim light to chase off total darkness and discourage burglars. Crickets sang in the field and he swore he heard a bullfrog in the distance. Making a quick sweep of the area with his eyes, he relaxed a bit. Thankfully, there was no sign of human life forms. Or dogs. So far, so good.
He caught up with Taryn in the middle section of the units, as she examined the numbers on the doors.
“I think we need to go one row over.” She casually brushed past him, as if the kiss hadn't happened. He glanced down at her butt as she moved away. He couldn't help himself.
“Keep your mind on business, Special Agent Silva,” she said.
His eyes snapped up. Damn. She was one hell of a mind reader. He grinned and followed her around the building.
Certainly one kiss couldn't hurt the case?
Taryn scanned the numbers and stopped at a unit three from the end. “This is forty-five. Here, hold this.” She passed over her Maglite then reached into her pocket for the zipped pouch, dropped to her knees in front of the padlock, and went to work.
“What you're doing is illegal.” And fascinating. He settled back on his heels to watch. She was quite the criminal for a PI. “Is there any law you won't break in the search for justice?”
“I've done worse than lock-picking. You can turn away if it bothers you to watch.”
He stayed put.
Approximately two minutes later, the lock snapped open. She stood, put the kit in her pocket, and retrieved her flashlight. “Let's see what we have.”
Rick did the honors and pushed up the wide metal door.
Inside, front and center, was an old cream-colored Pinto with a dented and rusted fender and peeling paint on the hood. A pair of faded fuzzy red dice and a drooping dream catcher hung from the rearview mirror. What was once a stone chip had turned into a crack that went from the center of the windshield all across the passenger side to disappear into some old rubber window trim. All this added to the creepy feeling emanating from the Ford.
They both stood and stared.
Rick broke the silence. “I believe we've found Brinkman's car.” He clicked on his own flashlight and stepped into the darkened unit. There wasn't much else in there. A few boxes, some loose paper scattered on the floor, and a mummified dead mouse on its back with its feet in the air in the far corner. A back tire on the Pinto was flat.
“I can't believe the women didn't take one look at this piece of shit and flee,” he said. “Only a deadbeat would drive a car like this.”
He looked down at the back fender and a cracked bumper sticker that proclaimed, “McGovern for President.”
“Jane Clark did say he was good in bed.” Taryn touched the hood. “Why would he leave the car here? He must love this piece of junk to keep it around. He probably bought it new.”
“It may have died. Or he worried Jane Clark had filed a theft report on her painting and the police were on the lookout for his car. There are not many old Pintos still on the road.”
They both donned their gloves and aimed their beams inside the car. “I half expected to find a dead Teddy Brinkman buckled in and rotting behind the wheel,” he said.
“One could hope.”
Instead were only more loose papers, some odds and ends of junk, and a couple of cases of motor oil on the floor behind the driver's seat. The Pinto probably guzzled the stuff.
“The key's in the ignition,” Rick said. He couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right about the scene. “So it probably wasn't towed here.”
“Hmm. No sign of Jane's painting.” Taryn tugged open the passenger side door to a loud squawk of protest from the rusty hinges. She clicked a few photos of the interior with her phone. “I don't see anything of value in here.”
Rick opened his door. The handle fell off in his hand and clattered onto the floor. He kicked it aside. “Brinkman probably pawned the expensive stuff and tossed the rest in here.” He leaned inside and made a face. “The interior smells like dirty jockstraps and sweaty feet.”
A brow went up. “Should I ask how you know what used jockstraps smell like?”
“High school hockey.” He lifted a sheet of paper to the flashlight beam. It was a dry cleaner receipt. He folded and pocketed it. “After the game, the uniform smell was brutal. Mom used the heavy-duty laundry detergent to get the stuff clean.”
“Ick. Hey, I found a half-eaten French fry.” She made a face and threw it over her shoulder. “And a hotel room key. That might be something.” She slid it into her back pocket.
They dug around for a while, finding little of evidentiary value, if the case ever went to court. Brinkman had cleared out the car, leaving only junk behind.
She slammed the glove box closed. “No registration. Where's a confession letter or incriminating photos when you need them?” Taryn asked. She tossed aside a gum wrapper.
The boxes held a bunch of trinkets of a life lived mostly in his car: maps, matchbooks, takeout menus from all over, some personal items, an unopened package of tighty-whities, a blanket, all sorts of nothing. She photographed it all.
Rick held up a pencil with a well-chewed eraser. “I'm keeping this in case we need DNA.” He added the pencil to the laundry receipt, then stood back and took photos of the car. Taryn joined him.
“Let me see if I can get a VIN,” Rick said and came around to her side. “If he did buy this new, the information could lead to his real name.”
“I'll text Irving and see if we can get a warrant for a more thorough search.“
Rick grabbed her arm. “Did you hear that?”
They fell silent. “I don't hear anything,” she whispered.
Then came the muffled sound of slowly approaching footsteps and Rick froze. In unison, they clicked off their flashlights and fell silent. The unit went dark.
“A guard?” Taryn whispered.
“Probably.” Damn. Rick put a finger to his lips. His heart thudded. If there was a guard, they were toast. The open door was a giveaway to their presence and there was nowhere to hide. Hopefully he could badge their way out of an arrest. “Stay here.” He walked silently to the door, stopped for a moment to listen, then peeked out.
A bullet nearly took off his head.
* * *
Taryn cried out as he spun back into the building. A second shot went wide and hit the metal doorframe with a loud snap. They dove behind the Pinto and came up on their hands and knees.
“Shit!” Rick said and did a quick assessment for injuries.
“Are you okay?” she whispered and touched his arm. Her eyes went over him but it was hard to see anything with the flashlights off.
“I'm okay.” He peered around the car. Dim light from outside etched shadows into lines on Taryn's worried face. He wanted to assure her that they'd be okay, but he was confused by this turn of events and had no answers. “Who in the hell is shooting?”
“Another burglar?” she offered. “Wait. I swear I just heard the muted sound of two male voices arguing outside.”
When he strained to confirm, there was nothing but silence.
“Most thieves don't carry guns.” He crawled out from behind the car and headed back to the door. Dropping to his stomach, he carefully looked out. His eyes didn't have time to focus when another pair of shots rang out and bullets hit the outer wall above him. Whoever had the gun wasn't a skilled marksman.
He pushed backward and rejoined Taryn. “We're trapped.”
Turning, he sat back and leaned on a tire. “Where's your Glock?”
“In the Olds.” At his look, she snapped, “We're searching a storage unit. What would I need a gun for? Shooting spiders?”
She had a point. He hadn't expected danger, either. “Sorry. You're right. I'm unarmed too.”
Frustrated, he knew they had to get out of here, but how? There was only the one door for escape. And that wasn't an option. Even if they did get out, they had no protection against bullets in the open alley between the units. But he had to save himself and Taryn. The idea of her being hurt soured his gut.
Before he could get past that grim thought, she nudged him with her elbow, turning his attention to her.
“I have an idea,” Taryn said. She stood, went around to the driver's side door, and slid inside. He kneeled and, through the window, watched her put the car in neutral, then step out. “If we push it outside, we can use the car as cover.”
He stood and met her at the back of the Pinto. Staring into her shadowed eyes, he said, “Amazing.”
A smile split her face. “Thanks.” Her hand caught his t-shirt and she pulled him in for a brief kiss. “If we don't survive, it's been nice knowing you, Special Agent Silva.”
Rick brushed her chin with his thumb, then pulled back and formulated a quick plan. “Stay low and go right, keeping against the wall. You circle back around on the north side of this unit and head for the front gate. I'll go around the trailers to draw the shooter's attention. We'll meet back at the Olds.”
“Got it,” she said and added, “Be careful.”
“You too.”
And they rolled the car out.
* * *
The car wobbled to a stop halfway out of the unit on the flat tire. That was the best they had. There was no time to adjust the plan. “Now!” Rick called out in a harsh whisper.
Taryn slid between the car and the door frame, crouched and bolted for safety, Rick on her tail. Shots blasted behind them but the car proved to be an effective barrier. Ancient auto glass shattered and metal pinged as bullets tore into the already damaged Pinto. She took a fast right around the building and then another into the row to the north.
And ran.
Gunfire erupted from the back of the lot and her heart raced over the sound of her rubber soles pounding on the pavement. Her heart twisted with the sound. Let Rick be safe!
It was probably ten seconds to the gate, but seemed more like hours, when trying not to draw the attention of a killer. She was almost to safety when she heard running feet behind her. Panicked, she dove under the gate and rolled to her feet in a fighting stance only to watch Rick slide out under the gate next to her on his stomach. He scrambled to his feet.
“Go!” he yelled. He didn't have to repeat the order.
Shouts and another shot sounded behind them, as they hit the street and raced across. Taryn sighted the shadowy shape of the Olds and took off in that direction. She heard Rick's uneven breathing as he matched her strides. He'd positioned himself behind her as her shield.
Her normally kick-ass PI sensibilities should have been insulted that he thought she needed protection, but at the moment, she appreciated the effort.
When she reached the car, she yanked open the door and jumped inside. The keys were tucked in the visor and she fired up the engine as Rick landed on the seat beside her. “Hang on!”
Rick grabbed the dashboard and strap when she hit the gas and the car jerked forward. Two men in dark hoodies scrambled to a stop in the middle of the street, one firing the gun at the moving car. Taryn banked right and ducked, as several shots hit the battered Olds. The men jumped out of the way as the car bore down on them.
The Olds fishtailed left. She righted the beast and punched the gas pedal, narrowly avoiding an oncoming panel truck. Within seconds, they were out of bullet range. She waited until they were miles from the storage facility and out of the city before letting herself relax and ease back on the gas.
The high-beams split the darkness, as she kept a look out behind them in case they were being followed. When she was sure they were in the clear, she pulled off on a quiet dirt road bracketed by cornfields and put the car in park. Her breath came in shattered gasps through an invisible weight on her chest.
She'd never been shot at before.
“What in the hell just happened?” She glanced at Rick and found him slumped in the seat and grinning. “Have you lost your mind? We almost got murdered and you find that amusing?”
BOOK: The Sweetheart Racket
8.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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