Three Fates (39 page)

“That’s insulting.”

He headed south awhile, then jogged east again. No tail, he decided, and no surveillance on Tia’s building that he could spot. That could change, but for now, it was handy.

He let Rebecca stew while he wound his way back home. He circled the building, keyed in the code for the garage he’d had built to his personal specs. The reinforced steel door rose, and he guided the SUV inside.

He had his Boxster stored inside as well, along with his Harley and his surveillance van. A man, he thought, had to have some toys. Storing them in a public garage had never been an option for him, and not simply because the yearly rate would have outstretched the cost of sending a kid through Harvard Law, but because he wanted them close. And under his own system.

He climbed out, reset the locks and alarms on the door, on the SUV, then uncoded the elevator. “You coming up?” he asked Rebecca. “Or do you want to sulk in the garage?”

“I’m not sulking.” She sailed by him, crossed her arms over her chest. “But it would be a natural enough response to being treated like a child.”

“Treating you like a child’s the one thing I don’t have in mind. Okay, take a pick. You want the rundown of this, that, or the other?”

She tipped her head up, wishing she wasn’t amused. “I’ll take this.”

“This would be your brother expressing his concern that you’re staying here with me.”

“Well, it’s none of his flaming business, is it? And a nerve he has, too, when it’s plain he’s cozied himself up with Tia. And I hope you told him so.”

“No.” Jack pulled open the elevator door so she could stomp into the apartment. “I told him I was in love with you.”

She stopped dead, spun around. “What? What?”

“Which seemed to ease his mind more than it eases yours. I’ve got some things to do. Be back in a few hours.”

“Back?” As if to catch her balance, she threw her arms out. “You can’t just leave after you’ve said such a thing to me.”

“I didn’t say it to you. I said it to your brother. Stretch out, Irish. You look beat.” And with this, he closed the door, locked her in and left her stammering curses at him.

He didn’t go far. It was only one flight down to the base he kept in the building. He worked from there when it was convenient, or when he was simply restless in his apartment upstairs and wanted a distraction.

Right now he wanted both the convenience and the distraction.

It was a comfortable space. He’d never seen the purpose in spartan work areas when there was a choice. There were deep chairs, good lighting to make up for the lack of windows, the antique rugs he favored and a fully equipped kitchen.

He went there first, started coffee and, while it brewed, accessed the messages that had come through on his various lines. He booted up one of the computers ranged over a long L-shaped counter, called up his e-mail and listened to the electronic voice read it out while he fixed the first cup of coffee.

He answered what couldn’t wait, put aside what could, then shifted to the personal messages. The e-mail from his father made him grin.

The aliens, having performed hideous medical experiments—of an embarrassingly sexual nature—on us, have returned your mother and me to Earth. You can hear all about it on
Larry King.
Now that I have your attention, maybe you could spare five minutes to get in touch. Your mother sends her love. I don’t. I like your sister better. Always did. Guess who.

With a laugh, Jack sat down at the keyboard. “Okay, okay.”

Sorry to hear about the alien experience. Typically, they insert tracking devices in their abductees. You may want to chew on tinfoil while having any personal conversations, as this is known to jam their frequencies. Just FYI. Recently back in NY. Am keeping gorgeous Irish redhead prisoner in my apartment. Possibility of exotic sexual favors from same may keep me busy for the next couple weeks. Love back to Mom. None to you. I’m not even sure you
are
my father. You guess who.

Knowing his father would crack himself up reading the post, Jack hit send. Then got down to work.

He ran a modified check on Cleo, enough in his estimation to placate Anita. On a separate computer he started a background check on her for himself.

He’d already come to the same conclusion as Tia, as Malachi. The six of them were going to have to work together as a single entity. He had no problem with team-work, but he wanted to know all there was to know about the team.

While the data scrolled, he rolled over to the monitors and, telling himself it was best all around if he kept an eye on Rebecca, engaged the cameras he had installed in his own apartment.

She was in his office, at his computer, and she looked steamed. Curious, he turned on audio.

“Bugger you, Jack, if you think I can’t get by your bloody passwords and blocks.”

“If you can, Irish,” he replied, “I’m going to be very impressed.”

He watched her awhile, noting the rapid streak of her fingers over the keyboard, the curl of her lip as she met another obstacle.

Most women, in his experience, when left to their own devices in a man’s space would poke in drawers, closets, examine the contents of the medicine cabinet or the kitchen cupboards. But she’d gone straight for the information highway.

It did his heart good.

He muted the audio, then busied himself writing a report on Cleo that would convince Anita he was doing her a favor, and offer her nothing helpful.

“That’ll set you on the boil,” he thought aloud.

He rolled away again to let it simmer before he read it over one last time and picked up the phone.

“Detectives Bureau. Detective Robbins.”

“The man with the badge.”

“The man with fraudulent ID.”

“Not me, pal. You must be thinking of someone else. How’s the crime-fighting world?”

“Same old. How’s it going in Paranoia-ville?”

“No complaints. Wondered if you wanted to take that twenty I owe you and go double or nothing on the Angels and O’s tonight.”

“Are you intimating that I, a public servant, gamble?”

“I’ll take the O’s.”

“You’re on, sucker. Now that the pleasantries are over, what’re you after?”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings. But since you ask, I got some descriptions to run by you. Muscle, probably freelance, certainly local. Thought maybe you could run them through the system for me, see if anything pops.”

“Maybe. You got names?”

“No, but I’m working on it. Bachelor Number One. White male, forty to forty-five, brown hair, thinning, no eye color, pale complexion, prominent nose. About five-ten, a hundred and seventy.”

“Lot of guys fit that, including my brother-in-law. Worthless fuck.”

“My information is he likes to use his fists and isn’t long on brains.”

“Yeah, that’s my brother-in-law. Want me to haul his ass in and kick him around?”

“Up to you. Your brother-in-law take any recent trips to Eastern Europe?”

“He doesn’t move his white, dimpled butt out of his recliner to go to the corner deli. You looking for a world traveler, Burdett?”

“I’m looking for an asshole who’s recently back from a little trip to the Czech Republic.”

“That’s a coincidence. We’ve got a corpse on ice, fits your general description. Had a passport in the pocket of his fancy suit. Had two stamps on it. One Praha. That’s, my erudite friends tell me, Prague, Czech Republic. The other was New York, about ten days old.”

Bull’s-eye, Jack thought, and swiveled back to a keyboard. “Can you spare the name?”

“Don’t see why not. Carl Dubrowsky, Bronx boy. Got a pretty yellow sheet on him—mostly assault—and a skate on a Man One. What do you want with our dead guy, Jack?”

Jack plugged in the name and started a search of his own. “Tell me how he got dead.”

“It was probably the four holes a twenty-five-caliber put into him. He turned up stiff in an empty warehouse in Jersey. Let’s have a little quid pro quo here.”

“I’ve got nothing right now, but I’ll hand it to you when I do.” He switched computers, readied to start a second search. “Got an address on that warehouse?”

“Jesus, why don’t I just fax you the file?”

“Would ya?”

At Bob’s rude response, Jack grinned and noted down the address.

When he’d finished on the phone, he typed up meticulous notes on all the data he’d generated. He was getting to his feet, coffee on his mind, when he glanced at the monitors.

The maniacal gleam in Rebecca’s eyes had him moving closer, switching the audio back on.

“Not so smart, are you?” she was muttering. “Not so bloody clever.”

“You are,” he commented, surprised and, yes, impressed, that she’d gotten past his security. Admittedly he didn’t keep anything confidential on that unit, and the blocks were moderate. But they were there, and it had taken a hacker with considerable skill to cut past them so quickly.

“Just as I thought,” he said to her image. “We’re made for each other.”

He got another cup of coffee and went back to work while she raided his hard drive.

Twenty minutes later, he’d done all he felt he needed to do for the moment. And so, he noted as he looked toward the monitors again, had she.

She switched the computer off, stretched, then, looking pleased with herself, wandered out of the room, across the living space and down the hall. Jack shifted his attention to the next monitor, watched her roll the stiffness out of her shoulders, pull the band out of her hair and shake it out.

When she started to unbutton her blouse he reminded himself he wasn’t a Peeping Tom. He ordered himself to switch off the cameras.

And he tortured himself by watching her peel the blouse away.

When she reached behind for the bra clasp, he ground his teeth and hit the kill switch.

He got a beer instead of coffee and spent the next half hour filing away his work. And wondering how the hell he could be expected to concentrate.

By the time he walked into his apartment again, he had a number of very interesting fantasies going. None of which involved finding her fully dressed but for her pretty, bare feet in his kitchen with fragrant steam puffing out of a pot.

“What are you doing?”

“Why, I’m climbing the Matterhorn, what do you think I’m doing?”

He stepped in, took another good sniff of the pot. Of her. “It looks suspiciously like cooking.”

The shower and change, as well as the session on his computer, had revived her. But while fatigue wasn’t a factor any longer, temper was still in play.

“As I had no idea how long you intended to keep me locked in here, I wasn’t about to sit around and starve to death. You’ve no fresh fruit or vegetables, by the way, so I’m making due with canned and jarred.”

“I’ve been out of town. Write down whatever you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

“I can do my own marketing.”

“I don’t want you going out alone.”

She slid a carving knife out of the wooden block, idly checked its tip with her thumb. Her mother’s daughter, Jack thought. Both knew how to make their point.

“You’ve no say where I go, or when.”

“You use that on me, you’re going to be really sorry after.”

Her smile was every bit as thin and sharp as the blade. “You’d be sorrier, wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t argue with that.” He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. “Let me rephrase. I’d prefer you didn’t go out alone until you know the lay of the land.”

“I’ll take your preferences into consideration. And one more thing. If you think that saying you love me is going to have me leaping joyfully into your bed—”

“Don’t push that button, Rebecca.” His tone had gone hard, very hard and very cold. “You won’t like the result.”

She angled her head. She found it interesting that drawing the knife had barely made him blink. But she’d ruffled him quite a bit by mentioning love, and sex.

“I don’t like you winging something like that out at me, then closing the door in my face.”

“I closed it in my face.”

She considered that, accepted it. “I’m capable of doing that, if and when I want.” With her left hand, she picked up a spoon, stirred the pot. “I don’t know what I want just now. When I do, you’ll be the first to hear about it. Meanwhile, don’t shut me up in here like a parakeet in a cage again. If you try, I’ll break all your pretty knickknacks, rip your clothes to rags, stop up your toilet and various other unpleasant things. And I’ll find the way out as well.”

“Okay, fair enough. When do we eat?”

She huffed out a breath, slid the knife back into its slot. “An hour or so. Enough time for you to go out again and fetch back some French or Italian bread to go with this meal. And something sweet for after it.”

She tossed her hair back. “I was pissed off, but not enough to bake.”

 

 

 

 

I
T was, Tia told herself, a foolish child who was nervous about walking into her parents’ home. But her palms were damp, and her stomach churned as she stepped into the dining room of the Marsh town house.

It was eight forty-five. Her father sat down to his breakfast every morning, seven days a week, at precisely eight-thirty. He would now be on his second cup of coffee and have moved from the front page of
The New York Times
to the financial section. He’d have finished his fruit and would have moved on to the next course. Which, Tia noticed, was an egg-white omelette today.

Her mother would take her herbal tea, her freshly squeezed juice and her first of the daily dose of eight glasses of bottled water—using them to wash down her morning complement of vitamins and medication—in bed. With it, she’d have a single slice of whole wheat toast, dry, and a cup of seasonal fruit.