Alana Candler, Marked for Murder (14 page)

He waited while she tilted her bleached-blond head to the side and looked at him from the corner of her eye. He could see the
I-have-you-where-I-want-you
look in her eyes and scowled when she crossed her arms and answered.

“Say ‘pretty please.’”

How he hated groveling!

“I need an alibi for last Friday night,” he said—ignoring her command. “I went to a party at Sidney’s house, but I didn’t stay the whole night. Now the cops are asking a bunch of questions about a kidnapping that happened that night; they think I was in on it. My dad could fix it, but he’s vacationing in Europe with his wife. So, I need you to tell them we came back to your house for a beer or something.” He gave her the sternest look he could muster. “Will you?”

Sandra approached him and slowly placed her hands on her hips, then teased him with a smile. “Well,
were
you in on it?”

“Of course not! I just can’t prove it. Will you just say we spent the evening together?”

“Marty, darlin’, you’re sorta over a barrel now, ain’t ya?”

Martin heard the blackmail tone in her voice. He shouldn’t have come here.

“Look, will you do it or not?”

She wanted to see him squirm, but he wouldn’t. She could stare at him all day, but he wouldn’t give in.

Finally she spoke. “Can’t you think up somethin’ better than we spent the evening together drinking a beer?” Her eyes flashed, and her lips curled—a sultry lilt colored her voice. “I could say you spent the night.” She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing her overly made-up face close to his.

Martin pulled at her arms and thrust them to her. “Cut it out, Sandra. I told you that won’t work between us. Now, you owe me. Will you do it, or does your
daddy
go to prison next time?”

She stomped across the floor and threw herself onto the couch.

“What’s in it for me?”

Martin slung his arm around in frustration and tightened his features. “All right. If you do this right, I’ll throw in those tickets to Hawaii you wanted for your vacation this summer. Just say we spent the rest of the evening together and you were with me the whole time. I’ll get one of boys to tell the police you crashed the party late, and you and I left together. Is it a deal?”

Sandra slumped against the back of the sofa and crossed her arms. “I guess so, Martin. But, don’t come around here again. We’re even now.”

Martin nodded curtly. Then, he left the apartment and got quickly into his car. After leaving the area, he finally breathed a relieved sigh. Now maybe the cops would stay off his back.

TWENTY-SIX

WHEN THE POLICE AND THE
fire department came to Alana’s apartment, there were a million questions for her to answer. Not only did Jaydn call the Ross police department, but Brad also called his detective friend who asked several questions of his own.

No, she wasn’t aware of having any enemies.

No, she’d never been on a jury that convicted anyone.

No, she never had anyone threaten her.

No, she didn’t know who would want to kill her.

When all the questions were answered and everyone left the apartment, Jaydn turned to her. She tried to hide her harassed look as he put his arms around her shoulders.

“Let’s go to my apartment and get some rest, okay?”

She nodded, too confused to even think, much less protest. He gathered the clothes she’d been able to salvage from the mess in what used to be her bedroom, and halted at the door.

“Maybe we should be careful about prying eyes as we leave. Do you have something to wear for a disguise?”

“What?”

“Old clothes? A wig or hat? So no one can tell it’s you.”

She grunted. “I’ll try to find something.”

Alana spent the next few minutes sorting through the debris scattered around her bedroom floor trying to find clothes that hadn’t been ruined by the explosion, and several more minutes finding the hat Jaydn mentioned.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Jaydn did a double take. “I wouldn’t have recognized you, if I didn’t know it was you.”

Her long blond hair was pulled up in a knot under a large wide-brimmed hat. The jeans she wore were about three sizes too big, and the floppy flannel shirt hung all the way to her knees.

“Brad left these when they came to visit last time. They’re a little big, but it hides the real me.”

Jaydn smiled. “It certainly does.”

Alana blushed.

Jaydn cleared his throat and indicated the door. “Okay, let’s get going.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

CHET LISTENED FOR SOUNDS OF
voices or movement, but all he could hear was water swishing against the buildings. He grabbed his flashlight and a screwdriver out of the glove compartment and got out of the car. Fearfully, he glanced around—making sure no one saw him—and crossed the street to a side door of the warehouse. The lock was old and easily jimmied, so he let himself into the building and gave his eyes time to adjust to the light.

Soft voices rose and fell at the front of the warehouse. Over the top of two brown boxes, Chet saw men talking in a small office located at the front of the building. The words were not audible, but he could barely see through the frosted glass.

Squinting, he tried to convince himself it was
not
a policeman’s uniform he saw—maybe a security guard, or a night watchman. He crouched lower and silently surveyed the area around him.

Crowded around the door was old furniture and broken pieces of equipment. He made his way around the pieces in front of him, and what he saw hidden in the back of the warehouse made him gasp. At least ten large, flat-screen televisions stood grouped against the side wall, along with compact computers, laptops, DVD players, and sound systems. A large, wooden display case glittered at him across the way, and he realized it was full of jewelry. His mouth popped open. A yellow diamond ring sparkled on top of the shelf.

That had to be worth thousands of dollars!

The ring was surrounded by several diamond brooches and pins.

This was definitely the proof he needed. He had to get outta here and call Brad!

He glanced around, crept forward, and slipped the yellow diamond ring into his pocket. Now he’d quietly let himself out—then call for backup.

But what if it was a false alarm? What if these items weren’t from the apartments of the murdered women? What if it was a legitimate business selling various household items?

What if? What if?

Doubts bombarded his thoughts.

The guys would never let him forget a mistake like this, and Brad would never trust him again.

He couldn’t leave yet. He needed more proof.

Listening carefully to keep tabs on the men in the office, he silently made his way around the pieces of furniture, trying to memorize what he was seeing. The reports from the vandalized apartments flashed through his head as he searched through the stash in front of him for something he might recognize as being on the list.

As he turned to check out a rust colored vase, his foot slipped on a cord dangling from a DVD player, and he stumbled. While trying to right himself, he reached toward a leather recliner sitting on his right. Grabbing for anything that would soften his fall, his hand came to rest on the handle that raised and lowered the footrest.

The footrest came rushing up with a loud “pop!”

Panic filled Chet’s movements as he righted himself and rushed back toward the door. He had to get out of here! Now!

The voices of the men scrambling through the office door were getting louder. He quickly slipped through the outside door and closed it quietly. Running across the street as fast as his unfit body would let him, he jammed his key into the lock of his car.

Why in the world had he locked his door?

The engine revved up as he turned the key in the ignition, and he slammed out of the side street. The last thing he saw in the rear view mirror was one of the men—standing beside the open door and pointing at his car.

Chet slumped in the seat and slid his car around the corner of an old brick building. He was sure the man hadn’t seen him, but he kept the gas pedal to the floor as he sped away.

As Chet turned the curve at the end of the street and went out of sight, Pops came running out of the warehouse. “Who was it, Sam?”

“I don’t know. It was the same black Camry we saw following us at the store.”

“With no license plate . . . and a broken taillight?”

Surprised, Sam turned to him. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Charlie saw it in my neighbor’s garage . . . ’bout a month ago.”

“So, you know who it is?”

With a sneer, Pops muttered, “Yeah, I know who it is.” The snarl in his face grew darker. “And I know just where to find him.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

CHET COULD FEEL HIS HEART
pounding a rhythm in his temples as he made a right turn and crept inside a huge warehouse designed to harbor semi-trailers. He backed into the corner shadows and waited to see if anyone was following.

No one passed the bay doors in front of him.

Did that mean he’d lost them? Had the man he saw coming out of the warehouse seen him? He was certain the back of the car was the only thing the man saw. Even if it was Pops, he would never recognize the car and wouldn’t know it was him.

What should he do now?

Go straight to the station and compare the ring to the pictures of the stolen jewelry. Excitement built inside of him. What if they matched? He’d be a hero for finding the hideaway of all the stolen items.

The jeers and mocking glances of his friends again busted the hero bubble he’d blown.

What if they didn’t match? If this was all a mistake, they’d never let him forget it—especially Elliott. What if it was a legitimate business? After all, he ended up at a warehouse, not a penthouse. He hadn’t uncovered a murder in progress. Nothing in the warehouse reminded him of the items stolen from the vandalized homes.

Elliott’s words after Chet’s last foible burned into his brain. “Another false alarm,
huh,
Chet?”

The pain in his heart talked his head into believing he shouldn’t do the logical thing, and his head obeyed what his heart was saying.

No. Not yet. Not until he was sure. First, he’d go back to the station and look at the pictures of the items stolen in the robberies. Then, if he recognized something in the warehouse, he’d tell the guys.

He’d go home now, hide the ring in case it was legitimate. He’s put Elliott’s name on the box in case something happened to him.

No, not Elliott. Not after the way he’d laughed at him.

Kent, maybe?

Yeah. He’d leave Kent’s name on the box. Then when he could prove he wasn’t jumping to wrong conclusions, he’d tell the whole department. Maybe he’d talk it over with Kent first. Kent would know what to do. As long as none of the men at the warehouse had seen him, he was home free.

He cautiously pulled his car out of the warehouse and searched the area. By the light of the rising sun’s rays, he saw no one. He was clean. Now he could head home—then to the station to check out the pictures of the stolen items. Sometime soon, he was sure Pops would make another trip with the box truck, and he’d be there to catch him red-handed. He might even call backup this time.

TWENTY-NINE

ON HIS WAY HOME FROM
the warehouse, Chet planned how he would handle his investigation. Since he was sure no one saw him at the warehouse, he’d have plenty of time to uncover what Pops was involved in. He might even get the names of all of the gang and be able to recover the stolen articles.

He saw no reason to include the rest of the department in the glory if he could solve the murders by himself
and
hand over names to his chief. Why, he might even get a promotion. A smile spread across his face as he envisioned his buddies being forced to admit he was better at investigating than everyone, including the chief.

He might even be recognized by the mayor for single-handedly solving these horrible murder cases.

As he pulled the car into his side garage and yanked the door shut, his ego formed the whole plan in his mind.

He locked the garage door and quickly strode through the house to his den. There, he sat down at his desk and jerked open the bottom drawer. Inside was a half-empty box of paper clips. He dumped them on the desk and pulled the yellow diamond ring out of his pocket. After wrapping the ring in a wad of tissue paper, he placed it carefully in the box and taped it shut. In bold capital letters, he wrote “KENT McDANIELS” on the outside of the box and put it in the back of the drawer. He closed that drawer and opened the top drawer to pull out a yellow pad of paper. He sat for a minute considering the information he’d gleaned about the warehouse.

Carefully, he worded the note he’d leave with the ring explaining how—without anyone’s help—he found the warehouse and its contents.