All Fixed Up (18 page)

“No!” I said, stopping.
God, not Billy.
I couldn't deal with him right now. I pulled myself up straight, shrugging off Laura's arm. “He's, um, busy with something … one of his … he can't be reached. I'll take care of it later. Laura, go on down with Tom. I'll throw some clothes on and meet you in the lobby. And then I'm going straight to my condo.”

“Can't. Mark wants you kept out of sight for now,” Thomas said.

“What the hell? Why?”

“I'm sure he has a good reason, sugar,” Laura said. “And I'm sure he'll tell us what it is when we see him later,” she added when I was about to protest again. I recognized the spook stubbornness in her eyes and dropped it. For the moment.

*   *   *

It didn't look too bad from the outside, only some broken windows and water-streaked soot stains. And, of course, the crime scene tape. Because arson. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that somebody had intentionally set my home on fire.

The fire had apparently been contained by strong firewalls, so my neighbors' homes had suffered only minor damage, thank God. At least I didn't have to add guilt to the host of emotions I was feeling.

I had convinced Thomas and Laura I'd never be able to relax until I'd seen it for myself. I was wearing the aura of one of my old high school teachers—Mrs. Denton, a young first-year teacher I'd had when I was a senior, who now lived overseas—so technically “I” was out of sight.

Thomas returned to where Laura and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of the building. At one time it had been a huge single-family home—a mansion, really—but some enterprising owner along the way had converted it into four two-story units, the front right of which was owned by Thomas and rented by me. (He was planning to buy up the other units as they became available—Thomas collects real estate the way I collect Spiderman comic books.)

“I spoke with someone from the firehouse. There's fire damage both up- and downstairs, and all up the stairwell, but the floor joists seem to be sound. There's a lot of smoke and water damage throughout. Once we get clearance from a structural engineer, I'll have the place gutted and redone. Sis, you can stay with us in the meantime.”

And watch you two brimming over with joy as Laura's belly grows? Yeah, no thanks.

“Are the stairs still there?” I asked.

“I assume so. Why?”

“Good. I'll be back in a minute.” I took off, slipping under the crime scene tape and through the door that was no longer capable of closing all the way.

“Ciel, wait—we can't go in!” Thomas came after me, but not until after he admonished Laura to stay where she was, so I got a pretty good head start.

It was the smell more than anything. Smoke, acrid and biting, mixed with the chemical fumes from burnt paint and synthetic carpet, overlaid with a dank,
wet
smell that made me want to gag. That, or the fact that if I hadn't been running away from my memories of Billy I would be dead right now, as charred as all my belongings. Somebody wanted me dead, and I didn't even know why. The very randomness of the act made me feel more vulnerable.

Holding one hand over my nose and mouth, I hurried up the stairs and into my room.

“Hey!” Thomas hollered from the front hall.

“Up here!” I ignored the scorched, sodden mess that was my bed and went straight for my burnt-up dresser. Yanked open the top drawer—the front of it splintered in my hands—and started riffling through wet underwear and bras.

Thomas came to a halt at the door to my room. “Sis, don't be ridiculous. We'll go shopping, get you some new clothes. You can't save those.”

My hand finally hit wet velvet. I squeezed the small jewel box tightly, sending up a wordless prayer before I opened it. I held back a sob of relief when I saw it there, unharmed.

The pin, made of white gold and diamonds and shaped like an open parachute, had been a gift from Billy after my first terrifying ride on his airplane. It was his way of telling me he'd always be there, providing security for me as I faced my fears and tried new things. Shutting the case and enclosing it in both hands, I held it to my waist, as if it could magically shelter the new life growing there.

I felt Thomas's hands on my shoulders. “Stupid risk, sis, sentiment or not. He could have always gotten you another one.”

Somehow I didn't think so. “Come on. Let's get out of here,” I said.

*   *   *

“This is the surveillance footage from the gas station three blocks from Ciel's condo,” Mark said.

We were at my office, on the third floor of the building that housed my brother's law firm (he owned it, of course), staring intently at my laptop screen. Thomas and Laura were with us. Thomas had tried to assure me his security system would have alerted him if anything were amiss, but I'd insisted on going there to see for myself it was okay. It wasn't until I was seated behind my antique wooden desk that I stopped shaking on the inside. I drew comfort from its solidness, its age, its aura of permanence. Not everything had been ripped away from me. Something of mine was left, a small cave I could crawl into, where I could lick my wounds.

While we'd waited for Mark, I'd asked Thomas to put my pin in his office safe, fairly sure there was no place more secure in the whole city. If he and Laura thought it odd for me to put it away, they didn't say anything. Maybe they figured wanting to protect it was an aftereffect of the shock of seeing the rest of my possessions ruined by fire, smoke, and water. Hell, maybe it was. All I knew was, I couldn't wear it anymore, and I couldn't let it go.

We all leaned closer to my laptop. I squinted at the grainy, black-and-white image. The camera was focused on the area in front of the cashier, but in the background you could see two of the pumps.

“There,” Mark said when a man approached one of the pumps on foot. He filled a gas can, using a credit card at the pump to pay.

“Is that…?” I said.

The man turned his head enough to catch his profile.

“Keep watching,” Mark said. The man glanced toward the camera, affording us a brief view of his whole face.

“Loughlin torched my condo?” I said. “But why?”

“Don't know, Howdy. We can't find any connection between him and you, other than your client. We've already put extra people on Dr. Carson, of course, but when we add Mason and Jenny together with Aunt Helen, it's starting to seem more like it might be some sort of vendetta against adaptors. I don't know if he has something particular against you, or if you're just next on his list.” He looked me right in the eye. “I want somebody on you at all times. I don't want you out in public without armed protection.”

I thought about protesting—it was almost a reflex at this point to argue my ability to take care of myself—but frankly, after seeing my condo, I was feeling a tad vulnerable. And, you know, not stupid. Plus, as much as I wanted to hyperventilate whenever I thought about it, there was the little bun in my oven to consider. So I nodded my agreement.

“What about Thomas and Laura?” I said.

“I've put people on everyone in your extended family, as well as everyone who attended the service. As for Tom and Laura…” He looked at Laura with a small smile.

Laura cleared her throat. “I'm actually pretty good at taking care of myself. I was trained by the best, you know.” She grinned at Mark, and glanced at Thomas.

“But you're…” I said. “I mean, didn't the doctor tell you not to, um, kick people's asses?”

Laura laughed. “She said I was in great shape, and that unless I experienced any unusual difficulties, it was fine to continue my usual physical regimen for the time being.”

Huh. Good to know. I was going to assume I'd get much the same advice when I got around to seeing a doctor. Which I supposed I'd have to do soon, but frankly right now catching a killer was a little more pressing.

Laura patted Thomas's arm. “And I promise I'll watch out for this guy.”

Kudos to my big brother for not wincing at the idea of his pregnant wife guarding him. Clenched his teeth a little, but didn't full-on wince. “Mark, remember when you said you could get me a gun and a permit and I told you not to be ridiculous? I changed my mind,” he said.

Mark nodded. “Done. Howdy, you still have yours, or was it lost in the fire?”

“I left it with Billy when I went to Houston.” I didn't even trip over Billy's name. I couldn't stop my heart from beating faster, but my high collar probably covered the pulse in my neck.

“I'll get you one for D.C.”

“No need,” I said. “I'm going back to New York tonight.” Because if I remained in D.C., Thomas would expect me to stay with him and Laura, and I couldn't. I would adjust to being around their happy family unit eventually, but I wasn't there yet.

“What have you found out from John Smith?” I said. “I'm assuming that isn't his real name.”

“You can't assume anything in this business, Howdy,” Mark said, his tone seasoned with a touch of teacher, which he then softened with a smile. “Though in this case you're right. Ivan Petrovich is a second generation Russian American whose family never quite assimilated. If they're as tied to the Russian mafia—Bratva—as we suspect, there isn't much hope we can scare him into talking. Nothing we can do to him would be worse than what Bratva would do if he gives away anything.”

“Great. So he's useless.”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. If I can manage a moment alone with him—unofficially—he might be more forthcoming. In the meantime, I'm heading back to New York myself. You can come with me on the company plane. That way I won't have to put another man on you until we're there. Maybe Billy, if he's finished with his business. Do you know if he will be?”

“I, uh, don't know for sure. His business sounded pretty open-ended.” Ha. Totally true. I only hoped I didn't look as uncomfortable saying it as I felt.

Mark cocked his head, a question in his eyes. I ignored it.

“You're with me, then,” he said at last. “We'll leave as soon as you're packed.”

I quirked my mouth. “Ready when you are. Everything I have is in my carry-on in Thomas's trunk.” An awful thought occurred to me.
“Shit!”

Three sets of alarmed eyes drilled into me.

“What?” Mark said. “Tell me.”

I sank back into my cushy leather desk chair and let the misery engulf me. “I have to go
shopping.
”

 

Chapter 15

“Do you want to stop by Billy's and pick up your gun before I take you to your parents' place?” Mark said, after we left the airport in a hot yellow Porsche 911, top up in deference to the subfreezing temperature. (Mark changed cars all the time. I thought he must have some sort of secret goal to get through every make and model in existence. Well, except a Yugo. I couldn't picture him in a Yugo.)

The plane ride hadn't been as awkward as I'd feared. There were several other agents with us—reinforcements to supplement the ones already guarding all the people who'd attended Aunt Helen's funeral—so Mark couldn't ask me any probing personal questions. Bonus: I'd had plenty of time to concoct natural-sounding answers to things he might be tempted to ask once we were alone, so I was ready for this one.

“I had a voice message from James.” Which I'd finally gotten around to listening to. He'd asked how I was doing (in a rather pointed way) and said to call him as soon as my job allowed. “Billy left the gun with him when he went to Houston. I can pick it up tomorrow. You can drop me at Brian's.”

Mark nodded. “Don't you think your parents will want you with them?”

“You know how Mom will get when she hears about my condo. I'm too tired for frantic mothering tonight. I'll have more energy to face her tomorrow,” I said.

“And Brian's couch is more comfortable than James's futon?”

I laughed. “Not really, but James and Devon have already put in their time babysitting me. It's Bri's turn. Unless he has a new girl I'm not aware of?” Brian was forever drifting in and out of relationships, apparently addicted to the bloom of fresh romance. He wasn't promiscuous for promiscuity's sake—as near as I could tell, he honestly thought he was in love every time.

“No, he's on his own for now. I've asked him to swear off the groupies until after we find Loughlin. He'll probably be happy for your company. But maybe you'd better call and give him a chance to get rid of anything incriminating.”

I grinned. Like a lot of musicians, Brian did tend to indulge in recreational “creativity enhancement” (aka smoking weed) on occasion, but he wasn't a pothead by any stretch. “I gave him a heads-up while you were pulling the car around. Anyway, he keeps it pretty well hidden ever since Mom stopped by unexpectedly with a pot of calamari noodle soup when he was sick. She thought it was dried oregano and added it to the soup before she left.”

Mark chuckled. “I'm surprised it bothered him.”

“It probably wouldn't have if he could tolerate Mom's calamari soup. As it was, he claims it was a waste of—and I'm quoting here—some ‘really good shit.'”

Another chuckle from Mark as he expertly negotiated through traffic—honestly, it was almost a relaxing ride—and then, out of left field, he said, “You gonna tell me what's up with Billy?”

My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”

“He's not answering my calls. I haven't been able to track him by other means either. Which means he's purposely avoiding me. I'm curious as to why, since I can't think of anything I've done to offend him”—he gave me a meaningful look—“lately.”

Crap. So not ready to deal with this. And I couldn't pretend everything was fine, not with Mark and his super-spy senses. I'd have to be straight with him.