Controversy (13 page)

I
t had been several minutes after Kyson had slammed the front door before Michael could manage to uproot herself from the center of the living room. She rushed to the front door and then glanced out the side panel of glass and watched as his car pulled out of the driveway.

Regret and indecision churned inside her. One thing for sure, she needed to do something. She didn't kill her husband and she could rule out the Damon twins, who were filling out some drunken contract hit as a favor. That meant there was a real killer on the loose.

Or killers.

Michael remembered the botched kidnapping last night. Clearly they weren't a revenge team Phil had sent after her to even the score. Which meant…

They were
really
going to kill her last night. She glanced around, remembering the open door when she'd returned home and even the shadows in the bushes. They had been there.

But why?

The phone rang and Michael jumped—a habit she was developing. She raced back into the living room and snatched up the phone.

“Mikey,” Sheldon exclaimed. The only way she knew it was Sheldon was by the number of babies screaming in the background. “Thank God you're back. What happened?”

“You don't want to know.” Michael sighed. “It's gone from bad to worse.”

“I didn't think that was possible.”

Michael shook her head and thought for a moment. Didn't the bad guys always tap the phones in the movies—or was that the good guys? At this moment in her life everything seemed cast in gray. The bad guys wanted to kill her while the good ones wanted to lock her up and throw away the key.

Michael's gaze fell back to the number written across her hand. “Look, Sheldon, I have to go. I'll call you back.”

“Call me back?” she thundered. “We need an emergency family meeting.”

Michael laughed at that, as well. She was usually the one who called family meetings. She had always been the ringleader—the one in control.

“Michael?” Sheldon prompted. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I'm here. Look, I'm going to have to call you back.”

“Michael, this can't wait.”

“I know.” She glanced around again. She no longer felt safe in her own home. “I'm probably going to crash over at Dad's for a few days anyway.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Phil's death has hit us all pretty hard.”

There was that, plus she was trying to avoid her own death, as well.

“Great, I'll let everyone know. By the way, Flex called, he's on his way here.”

Michael smiled. Good ol' Flex. She may have been responsible for him running three thousand miles from home, but he could still be counted on whenever they needed him.

“Okay, I'll see everyone tonight,” she said and rushed off the phone. Making a quick dash up the stairs, Michael threw clothes into an overnight bag. She would make good on her promise to stay at her father's, but first, she needed to see a set of twins.

 

Kyson wore out the punching bag before him. Sweat poured down his body and stung his eyes. He pounded the bag as if he was fighting a sworn enemy.

“Whoa, whoa. Ease up,” Khail said, cutting in to hug the bag.

Kyson backed up, but still danced around ready for another round.

“C'mon, bro. You're overexerting. Pace yourself.” Khail released the bag and Kyson rammed a quick dozen punches.

“Okay, okay,” Khail cut in again. “Let's take five.” He flung a towel around his brother's neck so he could mop his face.

Grudgingly, Kyson did what he was told while pulling in huge gulps of air.

Khail eyed his brother and then shook his head. “Whenever a man acts like this, it's got to be about a woman.”

“Shut up. I'm not in the mood.”

“Oh, yeah. It's definitely a woman. What did she do? Forget to tell you about her man? Run up your credit cards? Leave you for a woman?” Khail laughed at his own joke.

Kyson rolled his eyes and reached for his water bottle. He squirted a long stream into his mouth and then poured some over his head to cool off. He'd kept his training appointment, thinking it would be just the stress reliever he needed to get his mind right.

So far, it wasn't working.

The more he thought about Michael Adams, the more he felt like a fool. While it was true he liked his women on the wild side, suspected murderers were a definite no-no.

“All right. All right. This must be serious.” Khail pulled him over to a nearby bench. “C'mon, tell your big bro what's up. Your mind obviously isn't on training, which means it's not on the pending fight. What did you do, break your celibacy rule?”

Kyson grunted.

“Thought so.” Khail shook his head. “Hell, I guess getting laid is your kryptonite.”

“Are you finished?”

Still chuckling, Khail tossed up his hands to indicate his surrender. “I'm all ears.”

Exhaling a long breath, Kyson realized he didn't know where to begin. He leveled a look at his brother, debating. Finally, the need to confess to someone kicked in. “All right. There is this one woman.”

“I knew it!” Khail slapped his knee.

“Can I please finish?”

“Sorry, sorry. My bad.”

“I met this woman while investigating a missing person case. Anyway, there was something, a spark or something. I don't know.” He shrugged. “I haven't felt anything like it since Jada, you know?”

Khail nodded.

“Well, my partner and I questioned this woman—nothing ever came of it. Anyway, our paths crossed again last night.”

“Whoa.” Khail stood. “Don't tell me this is about that fine brick house that came to our table last night.”

“Look, you want to hear this story or not?” Kyson snapped.

“My bad. My bad. Go ahead.”

“Well…” Hell, Kyson didn't know how to go into the last part. The alleged kidnappers, the supposed break-in, the pool—the sex. “Let's just say we
hooked up
last night,” he spat.

Khail sat back down with a grin as wide as Texas. “Hooked up, huh? How was she?” He leaned in. “She was good, wasn't she? Probably all that and a bag of chips. I know. I can spot them a mile away.”

“Oh, just forget it,” Kyson said, jumping to his feet.

“Will you stop stalling and just tell me what the damn problem is,” Khail said. “You hooked up, but you're acting as if…Wait. Did her husband walk in on you guys or something?”

“No.” Kyson started walking back to the punching bag. His brother followed. “Let's just say that she's got herself into some trouble or she
is
trouble.”

“Trouble how?”

Kyson made a weak swing at the punching bag. “The missing person case has now been upgraded to homicide.”

Khail whistled low and then studied his younger brother. “When you say a girl is trouble you don't be playing around, huh?”

Kyson sighed.

“You're not, uh, entangled in this, are you?” He shifted on his feet. “You weren't seduced into getting rid of an unwanted husband or some movie-of-the-week plot, were you?”

“No. But as of right now, I've been suspended from the department until further notice. Though now that you mention it, I hope that scenario you described isn't running through my captain's head.”

“It didn't take me long to come up with it,” Khail said.

Kyson cursed under his breath. Maybe that had been her aim, to pin Matthews's murder on him.

“Let me ask you,” Khail said. “Do
you
think she's a murderer?”

Kyson was silent for a long time, remembering the passionate woman from last night—a woman who could still seduce him into bed even knowing what he knew now. Was he going crazy?

“I don't know,” he answered, and then repeated Michael's words. “We hardly know each other.”

“Then maybe you should find out.”

He nodded. He planned on doing just that.

“Do you need any help?” Khail asked.

“Maybe,” Kyson said. “I don't know if I can count on Griff to help me out on the DL. Not while my name is mud around the department.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to find out everything I can on a Ray Damon.”

Khail slapped Kyson on his sweaty back. “Consider it done, bro.”

 

By the time Michael threw her bag into her car, she was clueless about the
sixteen
sets of eyes and three separate surveillance cars that followed her every move. Just barely peering above the steering wheel of a late-eighties model Cadillac sat Ms. Juanita Perkins and three of her geriatric cronies.

“Oh, this is so exciting,” Louise said, clapping her hands behind Juanita's seat. “It's just like an episode of
Murder, She Wrote
.”

Two of the other ladies nodded in agreement while one frowned.

“I don't know about this,” Beatrice spoke up. “I think we may be getting in over our heads with this one.”

“Oh, don't chicken out on us now,” Estelle snapped. “If Angela Lansbury can solve all those murders, surely we can solve one itsy-bitsy one.”

Juanita nodded while Louise tried to adjust her wig for the umpteenth time.

Beatrice looked unconvinced. “I don't know.”

“Oh, pooh, Beatrice,” Juanita snapped. “Don't be an old fuddy-duddy. We already know who the murderer is, we just have to get information to prove it.”

“But if she's truly a murderer, doesn't that make her dangerous? What are we going to do if we get caught—club her on the back of the head with our canes and sit on her until the cops come?”

“If need be,” Juanita insisted. “I knew that girl was no good the moment I laid eyes on her. Just to think what she did to that sweet ex-husband of hers.” Juanita drew a breath as if to prevent herself from getting too emotional. “Well, she simply won't get away with it.”

Two heads nodded again in agreement while Beatrice hesitated.

“I know Michael was a bit of a rebel,” Beatrice started, staring while the young lady pulled out of her driveway. “But a murderer? I'm sorry. I just don't see it.”

“You're so naive, Beatrice,” Juanita said, starting the car. “You never see the dark side of anyone. That's why every salesman is California has your number on speed dial.”

Beatrice shrank in her seat, pouting.

“Okay, we better get going,” Estelle said. “She's pulling off.”

“I'm going. I'm going.” Juanita pulled away from the curb. “One of you should've reminded me to bring my glasses.”

 

In an unmarked police car down the street, Detective Griffin squinted at the carful of old ladies as they whipped past him. “Is that…?” He frowned, thought about it and then shook his head. “It couldn't have been…then again…”

“What?” Detective Martinez asked.

“That car that just passed…”

“Yeah, what about it?” Martinez asked as she pulled away from the curb.

“I think I know them.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I could almost swear they were the neighborhood watchdogs over at Philip Matthews's place.”

Martinez laughed. “You're kidding.”

Griff shook his head. “This case keeps getting stranger by the minute.”

M
ichael had made it as far as Mathilda Avenue in Sunnyvale before she'd spotted a black SUV in her rearview mirror. She tried to reason that there was no need to panic—after all, there were thousands of Ford Explorers on the roads—but she wondered just how many had a pair of blue fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

Was there a pair of blue dice in the SUV from last night? She couldn't remember. Besides, it was dark. She didn't see much.

But it was possible.

“Okay, Mike,” she whispered. “Don't panic. Stay calm.” She made an impromptu right turn on the next available street and then watched the rearview to see whether the SUV would make an appearance.

It did.

Michael's grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Oh my God. Oh my God. It's them.” Heart racing, she struggled to maintain her car lane. “Think. Think.”

While her mind raced, her stomach clenched into a tight knot. “Look for the police,” came her only answer. She groaned and rolled her eyes. Maybe that wasn't such a hot idea. Whoever these people were, they would undoubtedly disappear into thin air again, leaving her to look like an hysterical loony the way she did last night.

Michael took another right, then left, and right again. When the SUV remained hot on her tail, Michael did the only thing she could think of: put the pedal to the metal and burned rubber. After all, she grew up on
Smokey and the Bandit
movies and once was the queen of the go-carts when she was a kid. Surely that qualified her to shake an unwanted tail.

Car horns blared as she darted in and cut people off as she tried to fight her way back to the main highway. She would have to meet the Damon twins another time. The last thing she wanted was to lead potential trouble…or rather
more
trouble to their doorstep.

Right now she needed to get somewhere safe.

 

“What on earth is that child doin'?” Juanita asked, struggling to keep up. By Michael's third turn, the Neighborhood Watch girls tossed in the towel. “Didn't I tell you that girl was a menace to society?”

Louise tsked behind her. “She going to kill somebody else out here, driving like a maniac.”

Juanita pulled over to the side of the road. Her slow reflexes and weakened eyesight was no match against her former next-door neighbor.

“There's got to be a better way to do this,” Estelle stressed.

“I agree,” said Louise. “I don't think my heart can stand another trip like this one. We need to fall back and regroup—devise a better plan in goin' about this thing.”

Juanita grudgingly agreed and then slowly turned the long car around in order to take them home. “We'll get her. Mark my words. We'll get her.”

 

“I think she's spotted us,” Martinez complained, trying to keep up with Michael's erratic driving. It worked for a few blocks, but the streets were crowded and she had no real reason to give chase. “I wonder how she spotted us.”

“Maybe it's not us she spotted,” Griff grumbled, thinking of the old ladies but then spotting a black SUV. “Now, who is this?” he grumbled, angling to take a closer look. “Can you get a fix on the tags of that Ford Explorer?” he asked his new partner.

“What?” Martinez asked, distracted.

Griff leaned closer toward the dashboard, trying to make out the license plate himself. No doubt about it, the Ford Explorer remained locked on Ms. Adams's tail. “This lady has more people following her than a marching band in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.”

“Oh, I see them,” Martinez said, spotting the SUV. “Who do you think it is?”

“At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the CIA,” he grumbled, finally catching a good glimpse of the tag and jotting it down.

Martinez maintained her tail for two more blocks and then cursed when both the SUV and the Volvo lost her on Highway 680. “I don't believe this.” She tossed up her hands. “Where in the hell did these people learn to drive?”

“Don't worry about it,” Griff said. “She'll pop up again. Let's go back to the station. Something just doesn't feel right about all this.”