Dark of Night (11 page)

It was only then, gasping for air, wet hair in his face, blood pouring from his side onto the rain-soaked tarmac, that Dave realized Irish was gone.

He heard the sound of approaching police sirens—no doubt it was they that had saved his life—as he grabbed again for his cell phone and dialed Sophia's number.

He dragged himself toward the rental car—ready to lock himself in, in case Irish decided to come back—as Sophia picked up.

“Hey,” she said. She sounded fine—thank you, Almighty Father. “What's taking so long?”

“Are you all right?” he gasped.

Her voice changed, turning crisp, efficient. “Yes. What's going—”

“Stay where you are,” he ordered her. “In the lobby. Is there a security guard?”

“By the door to the ER,” Sophia reported. “Yes. Dave, what's—”

“Stay with the guard,” Dave told her. “I'm okay, but I was attacked in the parking lot—”

“Oh, my God, Dave!”

“I'm all right,” he said again. “Stay with the guard—I'm going to come to you. The police are on the scene.” He had to shout over the sirens. “They're going to bring me into the ER. Meet me there.”

He shut his phone, hanging up before she could argue.

And then, thank God, the police
were
there, a woman in uniform drawing her sidearm as she scrambled out of the cruiser that had squealed to a stop closest to him. “Hands where I can see 'em! Drop the weapon!”

Dave pushed himself back onto his knees, leaving the knife on the ground as he held out his empty left hand.

“Both hands!”

He pulled his right hand from his side—it was covered with a ridiculous amount of his blood, like some kind of horror-movie special effect.

“Jesus!”

“My name is Dave Malkoff,” he told her. “I made the 9-1-1 call. I'm former CIA. I was attacked by a man with a knife—that's his knife. I've been wounded.” Obvious, but sometimes in duress, people needed help getting past their initial shock. “I could use an ambulance.”

“I need an ambulance!” the female cop shouted.

“We need one over here, too,” someone shouted back, and Dave turned to see another uniform—had to be a rookie; the kid was maybe twenty—on the other side of his rental car. “Oh, fuck,” the rookie said, then scrambled away.

Dave could hear the unmistakable sound of vomiting, as the female cop said again, even more horror in her voice,
“Jesus!”

He held his side as he pulled himself forward, so he could see around the car and …

Dear God.

The female cop shouted something that seemed to be directed at him, her words a dissonant blur.

Dave didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He had no idea what the answer was. He was suddenly dizzy—maybe from the spinning blue lights atop the police cars or the loss of blood—and try as he might to stanch the flow, he couldn't keep it from slipping out between his fingers.

The female cop's weapon was up again, almost in his face, waving in his peripheral vision as she shouted at him, “Is this the man who attacked you?”

The question finally penetrated, and Dave looked up from the grisly sight of a man with his throat slit, lying in a puddle of blood, half underneath his rental car.

It wasn't the big Irish man, but what the hell… ?

“No,” Dave tried to tell the cop. “No …”

The dead man was Barney Delarow, a fellow CIA agent, a real sonuvabitch who'd led the murder investigation against Dave, all those years ago, back when Kathy-slash-Anise's body had been pulled out of the Seine, just outside of Paris.

“Dave!
Dave!”

He turned to see Sophia, running toward him across the parking lot, another woman beside her, and he tried to stand up, to show her he was okay, that he could walk into the ER for the stitches he was going to need, but somehow the driveway smacked him in the face, and he realized he'd fallen.

She was beside him then, on her knees in the rain and the blood. “Help me!” she was shouting. “He needs to get over to the hospital
now!”

And then he was being lifted, but he had to tell her, he had to make sure she knew. “I didn't kill him, Soph. That's not the man—”

“Hang on,” she told him, tears or maybe it was just rain running down her face. “Dave, damnit, don't you leave me!”

Oh, shit, did she really think … ?

“Never,” he tried to tell her, reaching for her through the darkness that was trying to swallow him, and connecting with her hand. Somehow he couldn't quite squeeze it. “Never …”

“You have to put his underwear back,” Tracy told Decker as he set his bag down on Tess and Jimmy's living room floor, as she forced herself not to burst into tears. Jimmy Nash was
alive.
He had to be alive, otherwise Deck wouldn't have come back in here.

She had a million questions—what was going on, was someone after Nash and if they were, were they after Tess, too?—but she focused on the problem at hand. “If
I
noticed that you took some of his things,” she told Decker, “someone else could, too.”

“I didn't take any of his underwear,” he countered quietly. “I just moved it a little. And the T-shirts… Tess could wear them. You know, to bed?”

What, was he crazy?

“You've been trying to make people believe there's something going on between the two of you,” she pointed out. “And yes, it's bound to be incredibly
complicated—your guilt, her guilt. But do you really think that she's going to ask her new lover to bring her some of her old lover's—her dead lover's— T-shirts so she can wear them? To bed, no less, where she could presumably occasionally bump into you?”

He shook his head, but it wasn't in response to her question. It was more of a rejection of this entire conversation.

So Tracy pushed on. “You know I'm right. Buy him new ones,” she told Deck. “Buy him new
everything.
And we really do need to box up all of his stuff and get it out of here. Because if I were one of the people you wanted to convince that he's dead … ? I'd be wondering why you haven't done that yet. But I'd stop wondering if you delivered those boxes to Goodwill. Give his clothes away—don't put 'em in storage, okay? If his life is in danger—and it must be if you've gone to all this trouble—just give it all away.”

Decker swore under his breath.

“I know it's a big expense,” Tracy started, but he stopped her.

“No,” he said, “that's not… You
are
one of the people we wanted to convince that he's dead. And if
you
figured it out …”

She had to turn away, because his words stung. She took the opportunity to pick up the bag and carry it back into the bedroom. Some of the operatives at Troubleshooters believed her to be less-than in the brain department—she was well aware of that—but she hadn't thought that Decker was among them. He'd never talked down to her, or treated her with anything other than respect.

“I figured it out because I live upstairs,” she reminded him as he followed her, as he watched her set the bag on the bed. She unzipped it and took out the T-shirts that he'd put in there. There were a half dozen of them, and she made sure she got them all. “Because I guessed. Because I
hoped.
And because I'm
not
an idiot.”

“I didn't say you were,” Decker countered, as she put the entire pile neatly back into the drawer.

“Didn't you?” she asked, glancing up at him.

He was standing there, still watching her, arms crossed, feet about shoulder-width apart. He wasn't a big man, but he was extremely solid—a fact he usually tried to hide by wearing clothes that were not only drab and dull but just a smidgen too large. Today he was dressed in faded blue jeans, with an olive-drab T-shirt that was more form-fitting than usual, since it
was hidden beneath a white, brown, and green plaid summer button-down shirt that looked like something Ben Affleck might've worn back when he was making
Good Will Hunting—
before he'd won an Oscar and had money to spend on clothing.

It was kind of funny. There were quite a few very handsome men working at TS Inc., and anyone who didn't know Lawrence Decker probably wouldn't have included him in that subset. But they'd have been wrong.

The fact of the matter was that the man worked it—hard—to be nondescript. He tried to blend in with his nothing-special brown hair and his seemingly average light brown eyes that were, in truth, a fascinating mix of green, blue, and brown. Tracy even suspected that he refrained from smiling too often, because his smile was a killer and took him instantly over into the hottie pile.

“You're an extremely intelligent receptionist,” he told her now in his accentless, average-guy voice. “The key word there being
receptionist”
He swore again as he looked at his wristwatch. “Damn it.”

“If you have somewhere to be,” Tracy told him, “we can talk more about this tomorrow. I'll help you with the shopping. And I'll get this stuff packed up. Lindsey can help—”

“No,” Deck cut her off. “Lindsey can't know.”

Which meant Lindsey Jenkins, one of Troubleshooters’ best kick-ass operatives and a former detective with the LAPD, didn't
already
know. Which made Tracy feel a little better. Less odd woman out.

She nodded as she went through the rest of the items in the bag. The only other troubling piece of clothing was a sweatshirt that had to be Jimmy's. She removed it. “Understood. I won't tell her.”

Deck was still shaking his head as she rezipped the bag. “I'm sorry,” he said. “This is too important.”

“Okay then,” she said, finding the right shelf in the closet for the sweatshirt. She raised her voice so he could hear her. “I'll do the packing by myself. Tomorrow, after work.” But as she came back out of the closet, she saw that Decker's head-shaking hadn't stopped.

He just stood there as he looked at her with a full boatload of chagrin in his eyes. “Honey, I'm really sorry, but you're not going in to work tomorrow.”

“Ex
cuse
me?” Tracy stared at him.

Decker didn't repeat himself. He was obviously aware that she both had heard him and knew precisely what he'd meant. “It's best if you call Tom from your home phone or your cell—don't use this line.”

“And my excuse is
what?”
Tracy couldn't believe this. “I'm suddenly sick? Like,
Hello, Tom, even though I was perfectly fine when I left work this evening, I seem to have come down with … with … West Nile Virus?”

Decker shook his head yet again. It was getting old. “More like you're taking a vacation with a new boyfriend.”

“With no notice?” She was horrified, and made an
are you insane, Napoleon Dynamite-worthy
sound. “I would never do that. Not even for… Johnny Depp.”

“Most of the staff is on vacation or taking lost time,” Decker pointed out. “There's not going to be much to do over the next few weeks. It's last-minute, yeah, but it's good timing. Tom'll agree.”

“And if he doesn't?”

Decker sighed. “Then you apologize and tender your resignation.”

“What?”

“I know, and I'm sorry—”

“Sorry?” she said. “You're
sorry
that because you don't
trust
me to keep my mouth shut, I'm going to lose my job?”

“It's not that simple,” Decker told her. “Think about it. If you were me, would you let you walk around, knowing what you now know?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. “Because you know me. I can't keep a secret to save my life. Plus, I'm none too bright. You never know, it might just come flying out of my mouth at any given moment.”

“That's not what I think,” he told her quietly.

“Isn't it?” she asked. “And what exactly does it mean—you're not going to
let
me
walk around?
Am I under arrest? Are you going to, like, lock me up? Word of warning: I don't do well locked in basements. Or closets. Although I've never actually
been
locked in a closet, so on that one, I'm just guessing.”

Decker was shaking his head again, his eyes dark with understanding. “We've got a safe house,” he said. “You'll stay there for the duration. It's comfortable—”

“Stay,” she said. “Involuntarily, though, right? Like, if I want to, say, go to the mall—”

“Pack a bathing suit—there's both an indoor and outdoor pool.”

“With a half-naked cabana boy named Rico?” Tracy shot back at him. “Serving drinks with little umbrellas? With enough daiquiris and exotic
… dancing
from Rico, ditzy, shallow Tracy won't remember that not only is she in jail, but she's
lost
her
job….
”

He was trying not to smile, which was infuriating. “If you lose your job, I'll make sure you get it back when this is over and done.”

“And when, exactly, is that going to be?” Tracy asked, arms crossed. He'd mentioned
the duration.

“I don't know,” Deck admitted with that same point-blank honesty that she'd always admired. It wasn't quite so charming tonight.

“Will you also pay my rent and utilities until that as-yet-undetermined time?”

“Yes,” he replied without a hint of hesitation.

She blinked, because okay, that surprised her. “Seriously?”

“Honey, you have my word.”

And there they stood, just gazing at one another.

Tracy had Decker's
word.
It was stupid, but his saying that impressed her. Bottom line, she liked this man. She admired him, very much—even when he'd hurt her feelings and pissed her off.

And then he went and did a double-Decker by voluntarily bringing up the volatile topic she'd tossed out a few moments ago with her locked-in-the-basement comment. “I understand that the idea of having your freedom restricted is a frightening one for you, because you've been locked up against your will,” he told her quietly. “But the safe house is huge—you'll have your own private suite of rooms. There's a chef's kitchen, a home theater with an extensive collection of DVDs—”

“I'm a reader,” she informed him. “A voracious one.”

“We'll make sure you have all the books you want,” he promised. “You can relax by the pool and read. And if it gets too restrictive for you, we'll figure something out. I'll get you to the mall. I won't be able to do it often, but… No one's locking you in the basement, okay? Never again. Not as long as I'm alive.”