Alana Candler, Marked for Murder (15 page)

Kent,

I think I’ve found the hideout for the sheet murder suspects as well as the stolen items. There’s a tall gray warehouse located on the eleventh row at the waterfront—the fifth building on the side closest to the water. Stored there are numerous articles I suspect are related to the burglaries we’ve been investigating. If anything happens to me before I’m able to finish my investigation, check out my neighbor, Pops. He’s involved. I found this

The pen froze in the air above the next word when Chet heard something in the doorway that made his heart pound in his chest—the hammer of a gun being cocked.

A voice, low and raspy, spoke from the doorway. “Raise your hands, Chet . . . really slow.”

Dropping the pen and slowly lifting his hands, Chet looked up to see the face attached to the voice.

Pops!

The blood drained from his face, and he felt a cold wave fill his veins.

“You didn’t think we’d let you get away with that little visit you paid us this morning, did you?” Pops said with a growl.

Chet made a feeble attempt at ignorance. “Wh-what do you mean? I’ve b-been here all morning.”

Pops made no comment, just sneered and yelled over his shoulder to someone behind him. “Charlie! Get in here.”

The short, frizzy haired man Chet saw that morning bounded into the room.

“Get his gun and hand me that paper. Let’s see what my neighbor’s been up to.”

Chet’s upper lip glistened as Charlie pulled the Glock revolver from Chet’s side holster with a gloved hand and snatched the yellow paper from the desk.

Pops took the gun, handed his own gun to Charlie, who stuffed it down into the waist of his pants, and read what Chet wrote on the paper.

The darkness of Pops’ soul turned the color of his eyes black. He turned toward Chet and pointed the revolver toward his chest. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Since I’m the one you call
Pops
, you just bought yourself a ticket to see your dead relatives.”

Chet stared into the black eyes and knew there was nothing he could do. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the pulse beating in his temples.

“Watch him, Charlie.”

Charlie moved to the front of the desk and pointed his gun at Chet’s head.

With his free hand, Pops pulled a phone out of his shirt pocket and dialed a number.

“We got him, boss.”

A wave of panic stung Chet’s face when he heard the mumbled voice on the other end of the line. He’d heard that voice before.

Pops nodded and said into the phone. “I’ll take care of it.”

Pops hung up the phone and keeping his gaze on Chet’s face, he pointed the gun at Chet’s head.

“All right now, neighbor, where is it?”

Chet swallowed. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“That little gift you gave yourself that doesn’t belong to you. The boss knows you took it. Now where is it?”

Anger built inside Chet’s temples. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed tighter together. He couldn’t cave. He
wouldn’t
.

Pops shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. No one can connect us with it. We’ll find it
after
you’re gone.” Then, he turned to Charlie.

“Tear another sheet out of that pad, Charlie. Chet’s gonna sign another note for us.”

Charlie reached toward the desk and grabbed the yellow pad. He tore out the next sheet and set it front of Chet with a pen.

“Now,
neighbor
, you either sign this paper at the bottom, or you’ve just picked a hard way to die.”

Chet’s spine went limp, and he sank down into the chair. Sweat rolled into his eyes, and the paper blurred before him.

“You won’t get away with this, Pops. The guys at the department’ll figure it all out. Then you’ll add the murder of a policeman to your list of crimes. That’ll guarantee you a death sentence.”

Rather than answer, Pops came around to the side of the desk and pointed the gun toward Chet’s knees.

“Sign it, or we’ll start the shooting with your kneecaps.”

Chet stared at the yellow shape in front of him until Charlie reached across the desk and raised his hand to hit him.

“Wait!” shouted Pops. “The boss said not to leave a mark on him. They have to think he did this on his own.”

Chet’s mind blurred with crazy thoughts of jumping up and grabbing the gun, but he knew they would shoot him anyway. He didn’t have a chance. The only way he could make his death worth something was to leave some kind of clue. He reached over and put the pen down on the bottom of the paper and with shaking hands, signed: Chetworth Edom Fabian.

As Chet laid the pen back on the desk, Pops grabbed the paper and handed it to Charlie.

“Print it.”

Charlie took the paper and fit it into the printer on the side of the desk. He reached across the desk, pulled the keyboard from in front of Chet, and pounded on the keys.

Chet’s mind was racing furiously, trying to figure a way out.

“Look, Pops. If you let me go, maybe we can work out something.” His face lit up. “Hey! I can run interference for you at the station. You know—let you in on the evidence they find. Come on, Pops. You know killing a cop’s a death sentence for sure.”

Pops said nothing—his expression dark and menacing. After the printer stopped, Charlie handed him the paper.

Pops read what Charlie wrote and laid the paper on the edge of the desk. Leaning toward Chet, he looked him in the eye. “I tell you how you can help us, Chet—like this—” He turned the gun toward Chet’s head and pulled the trigger. Chet’s body slumped to the desk.

“Get the car, Charlie.”

As Charlie scrambled from the room, Pops walked around the chair, wiped the gun clean, and put it into Chet’s hand. The last thing he did before leaving the room was to touch the point of the gun to Chet’s head and put Chet’s finger on the trigger.

THIRTY

ALANA STRETCHED HER LIMBS AND
sighed contentedly before she opened her eyes. When she realized where she was and where she’d spent the night, the events of the last few days hit her like a blow to the chest.

It was 2:30 in the morning when they crashed at the plush corner apartment, and she had been too exhausted to pay attention to her surroundings. After a five-minute shower, she dressed in her gown and crawled into bed. She was asleep in seconds but woke up shaking—convinced the bed was exploding. Exhaustion kept her awake—lying in the jet black room for what seemed like hours before she finally dozed off.

Now, she glanced at the clock beside the bed and saw it was already past eight o’clock. Pushing the covers back, she perched on the edge of the bed and looked around her. The room was devoid of any personal touches whatsoever. It looked more like a hotel room than an apartment—containing only five pieces of furniture in the stark room.

The bed was boxy but comfortable and was covered with matching sheets, a quilt, and a comforter with a pink swirly rose pattern. Across from the bed was an entertainment center that held a television and DVD player, and two average-size windows balanced the wall on either side. There was a pink floral arrangement perched on the smooth surface of the dresser on the right side of the room, with a large mirror attached.

In the corner beside the closet, a rose-colored recliner sat forlornly.

She remembered taking her shower in the adjoining bathroom to the left of the room. On the wall beside the bathroom door was a chest of drawers standing by itself.

Except for those large pieces of furniture, there was nothing else in the room—nothing to offer a cheery “Welcome.” It was a lot like a hotel room.

The black wallpaper was unusual. Silver stripes, laced with tiny rosebuds in the center of each silver band, touched a chord of melancholy in her soul. The shiny black drapes hanging lifelessly from the straight rods above the windows were covered with the same silver color and matching rose patterns.

Alana shivered when she studied the depressingly cold setting and wondered if sadness influenced the decorator’s decision.

Beggars can’t be choosers, Alana!

It wasn’t exactly her style, but last night when she piled into the spongy bed, she was thankful she had a place to sleep without fearing for her life. She shook slightly, remembering what happened to her the last time she stayed in a strange bedroom—at the hotel.

Questions filled her head.

What did this maniac want? Why did he trash her apartment? There was nothing she owned that was that important—worth her life. None of it made sense.

Don’t think of that now, Alana! Just one day at a time, remember?

Deliberately, she climbed off the queen-size bed and walked across the plush carpet to the bathroom, where she frowned at herself in the mirror. Strands of hairs hung around her face—limp and forlorn—and there were stress lines under her eyes.

She looked like something the cat dragged in!

A light tap on the door startled her.

“Miss Candler?” A woman’s voice sounded hushed through the painted door.

“Just a minute,” she called. Slipping into her robe on the end of the bed, she hurried to the door and pulled it open slightly.

An older woman in a white uniform with a pale blue apron stood in the hallway outside the room.

“Hello, Miss Candler. I’m Naomi Nelson, the housekeeper. Mr. Holbrook asked me to let you know that breakfast will be served in the kitchen area whenever you’re ready.” The slight Irish accent was almost non-detectable but somehow comforting. The smile on the older woman’s face was genuine; her eyes issued a confirmed welcome. Her short, gray hair bobbed up and down as she relayed Jaydn’s message—as if it were the most important thing she had to do today.

“I can be down in about fifteen minutes,” Alana told Naomi with a returning smile.

“The kitchen is down the stairs and to the right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

Alana picked through her small assortment of clothes before putting on the first blouse she could find that didn’t need ironing. It was golden brown with small brass buttons and a thin square collar. The only shorts she could salvage from her apartment were blue jean walking shorts that didn’t need ironing, so she slipped them on also.

After giving her hair a few quick strokes with the flower-lined hairbrush on the bathroom counter, she opened the door and peered cautiously into the hall. Taking a deep breath, she walked out the door.

As she started down the wide set of stairs, Jaydn’s voice boomed from a downstairs room next to the foot of the stairs. She hesitated on the top step, trying to decide whether to join him or find the kitchen on her own. His voice sounded irritated and the volume was loud enough she could hear every word.

“I said I’m sorry! What more can I say? I was detained last night and couldn’t pick you up . . . I know I should have called, but . . . no, I didn’t . . . look, Patricia, can we talk about this another time? This is a bad time. Patricia . . . no . . . I don’t have time for this now. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”

Alana was surprised at his angry tone. Even from this distance, she could feel his anger as he abruptly hung up the phone. Tiptoeing silently back up the stairs she slumped against the corner wall, hidden from the downstairs hallway. He missed something—a date?—because of her. Strange, the way he treated the caller like more of a nuisance than a romantic interest. Her heart skipped a little, but she knew his helping her was only a duty—nothing more. His personality demanded he step in and take charge—it wasn’t personal. Even at the lake, he attended to her needs before he knew her personally. He gave that attention willingly but only out of an admirable sense of duty. It would be silly to imagine anything more.

Alana crouched in the shadows of the paneled wall and waited, giving Jaydn time to calm down. She dreaded the thought of confronting his anger. He’d be embarrassed if he knew she overheard his conversation.

Tones on the phone sounded as he called another number and spoke again—his voice flat and controlled this time.

“This is Jaydn. Is Florence back?” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Tell the new secretary I won’t be in the office today. I’m taking care of some business in Ross. Tell her to cancel all my appointments and record all my conference calls. I’ll have to check with her at lunchtime to see if anything new has come up. If she has any questions, tell her to ask you or Ward. I’ll probably be back tomorrow or the next day.”

Alana waited until she heard him place the receiver back on the phone, much quieter this time before she carefully rounded the corner and headed down the stairs.

When he walked out of the narrow door to the left of the stairs, she was half way down the winding staircase. A small black bag was nestled in the crook of his arm as he waited for her to descend.

“Good morning,” she smiled tentatively.

“Morning,” he said.

She bit her lip deliberately to keep from asking questions that were none of her business and glanced down shyly. He raised his head and smoothed out the features of his face.