Double Vision (17 page)

Before she had seen the ad in the paper she had been able to imagine that some family had found Baby and taken him in, that he was a much-loved pet. The thought that he had been chained and probably abused made her clench her jaw. Baby had been adored and cared for from the moment of his birth. He was a gentle, intelligent animal; he wouldn't understand abusive behavior.

Blankly, Rina stared at her bedroom, with its queen-size bed, regulation dressing table and reading lamp, and the small silver frame with Baby's photo in it. She had been pacing the house and had somehow ended up there. It was an old habit—when she got upset, she walked, and Baby had used to walk with her. The rhythmic action of putting one foot in front of the other had always had a soothing effect, but now it was just one more reminder. Rina had escaped, protected by all of the considerable resources of the United States government, but Baby had been left behind.

Turning on her heel, she strode out to the sitting room. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since she'd hung up the phone. She had another twenty-four hours to wait before she could hope to hear anything. It was going to be a long night. Tomorrow was going to be an even longer day.

R
ina jammed her foot on the brake. The vehicle, a small SUV that belonged to the driving school she was enrolled at, jolted to a stop at an intersection. A horn blared.

She checked the rearview mirror. A truck was stopped behind her, the hood so close it was evident that whoever was driving had almost rear-ended the SUV. A single finger appeared in the window, jerking upward for emphasis.

Rina's jaw tightened. Learning to drive was a necessity. She was doing her best, but everyone drove too fast and some people were rude. This guy was downright intimidating.

The lights changed. Taking her time, she remembered to flick the indicator on, took a left and bunny-hopped sedately into a parking area. The truck, which had followed her around the corner, roared past, peeling rubber. Rina risked a glance at the disappearing streak of red, but she was too late to get his license plate. Not that she wouldn't know him again—fire-engine red was distinctive.

As she slotted the car into a space, she noticed the driving instructor's knuckles had gone white and both his feet were jammed against the firewall.

She forced her jaw to loosen up.
Join the club.
She hated driving with a passion, but she was determined to learn. With a sleepless night behind her, and most of the day to fill before she heard any news, she had to occupy herself with something. Denny Klimek's driving school had been the obvious answer; nothing was guaranteed to absorb and irritate her more than the constant battle on the road, and with her test just two days away, she needed the practice.

Denny unhitched his seat belt. “I need a drink.”

Rina watched as he climbed out of the car and repressed the urge to say, “Make mine a double.” Denny was middle-aged with a paunch, and graying hair at the temples. His wife did the paperwork and manned the reception desk, and Denny did the driving lessons. The first time she had walked into his office he'd had an amused twinkle in his eye and a “no sweat” attitude. Lately there had been no sign of the famous humor and he'd done plenty of sweating.

Letting out a breath, she wound all the windows down and forced herself to relax as she watched Denny walk across the car park and into a small café adjacent to the mall entrance. A family group strolled along the sidewalk and walked into the mall. A man strolled from behind a delivery truck and disappeared into the shaded entrance.

She frowned. She couldn't see his face, but something about the back of his head was familiar.

Her pulse kicked. There was always the possibility that, new life or not, she would bump into someone from the past.

Reaching for the bottle of water that was sitting in the drink holder, she continued to watch the mall entrance to see if the man would walk out so she could get a look at his face. Bayard and Marlow had both drummed into her the importance of completely disassociating herself from that previous life. If she thought that someone had recognized her, or was showing any undue interest in her, all she had to do was pick up the phone and they would be there.

Long minutes passed. When the water bottle was empty, she slotted it back into the drink holder, then reached into the backseat, found her handbag and extracted a tissue to blot perspiration from her face. She noticed a truck, similar to the red one that had almost rammed her at the lights, parked in the row behind her, although that wasn't surprising. In Beaumont, lots of people drove trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles. This particular beast was black.

She checked her watch. She could see Denny standing talking to a woman on the sidewalk outside the café. Plenty of people had entered and exited the mall, but none of them looked anything like the man she'd glimpsed. When Denny finally ambled across the car park, she was more than ready to leave, and the idea that Alex had dispatched someone to find her had wilted in the heat.

Instead of climbing directly into his seat, Denny walked around the hood and hovered by the driver's-side window. “Maybe it's not a good idea to continue if you don't feel up to it.”

“I've paid for the afternoon. Have you got a problem with continuing?”

He forced a grin. “Me? No way. You know our motto.”

Drive 'Til You Die. She could see where he might be regretting that. The driving school's ad promised to get her licensed and on the road, period. Age, infirmity and disability, according to the fine print, were no barrier. As far as she was concerned, the sooner she got her license, the sooner they would both be put out of their misery. “Then, let's get going.”

She waited until Denny had fastened his seat belt, turned the key in the ignition, checked the rearview mirror and prepared to reverse.

As she pulled out of the space a horn blared. Her foot jammed on the brake. A strangled oath was cut off as Denny was propelled forward, then jerked back by his seat belt. Rina's fingers tightened on the wheel. The truck that had been parked directly behind her had just reversed out. She had almost backed into him.

Muttering an apology, Rina shoved the gear shift into Drive. As the SUV eased forward, she checked the rearview mirror again, but the tinted windows of the truck made it difficult to make out anything beyond the fact that the driver was male. Seconds later the truck cruised past and pulled out onto the highway. Automatically she noted the registration plate.

He hadn't done anything wrong, it had been her fault. She had taken too long from the time she had checked behind her until she had started backing out, and in the interval, he had pulled out, but it was becoming second nature to check numbers. Taking a deep breath, Rina started the process of backing out again.

Two hours later, she exited the driving school building and strolled along one of Beaumont's pretty side streets. She still had an hour to spare before it was likely that Taylor would ring. On the way home, she stopped by a variety store and bought a cheap pre-pay phone.

Deliberately, she made herself stop at the supermarket and buy groceries, then the newsagent, where she picked up another load of papers. As she strolled out of the newsagent, she noticed the back bumper of a black truck.

The door of the store banged softly behind her as she studied the vehicle. A car obscured her view of the license plate, but she could make out two numbers. They matched with the license plate of the truck she had almost backed into earlier on.

Shaking off the unsettled feeling as just one more dose of paranoia, she began the walk home.

When she reached her kitchen, she laid the groceries and the papers on the counter, spread the first paper out and turned to the classifieds. The skin at the base of her neck crawled. There was another photo of Baby.

She slipped the cell phone she'd bought out of its bag, inserted the battery and plugged it in to charge. The urge to ring Taylor was so strong she almost gave in to it, but she couldn't use the cell phone yet and she couldn't risk using a landline again. In any case, Taylor wasn't part of the bust. Like her, she would be waiting it out.

 

Taylor pulled up outside a small block of condominiums in an exclusive seaside estate south of Winton. Slater's ex-wife had not only changed her address, she had changed back to her maiden name after her marriage had ended and was now known as Elaine Pierce. Officially, Taylor wasn't supposed to be within a mile of her. Bayard had taken care of this part of the investigation weeks ago and signed it off as just one more dead end in an investigation that was full of blind alleys.

Taylor wasn't so sure. She didn't know exactly why Elaine Pierce could be any more interesting than a dozen other leads that had gone nowhere, but for some reason her mind had latched on to the idea, and when that happened Taylor paid attention. As minds went, she didn't have genius status or a special talent, like Rina. What she had was focus and a reputation for never giving up. That tenacity, coupled with the fact that she was female, had caused her a lot of grief over the years and some name-calling, but that was all water off the proverbial duck's back for Taylor. The way she saw it, if she had wanted to be a sheep instead of a bulldog, she would have been one.

Pulling the rearview mirror down, she checked her wig, which was a sleek honey-blond.

It didn't quite go with the aforementioned personality, but the disguise was workable. Elaine Pierce's house could still be under surveillance, and if Bayard heard that a tall brunette had knocked on Slater's ex-wife's door, he would railroad her out of the FBI so fast she'd be spinning. No way was Taylor finished with her law-enforcement career yet. She'd worked hard to get where she was. She'd aced her class at Quantico and had consistently graded so highly she'd had her pick of field assignments. Once she was in, she hadn't rested on her laurels. She had worked her way through the ranks, and without the brownnosing, thank you.

After qualifying, she hadn't let herself hover around the “just fit enough” range like some of the agents. Fitness had always been as natural to Taylor as breathing. Maybe it was masochistic, but she liked training. She had done athletics at school and won a few medals. She also had a black belt in karate and judo, and she regularly worked out with weights and ropes. A few years ago when she'd been dating a Navy SEAL, she had even gone to the trouble of finding out how they trained and she had found that nothing got you fitter in the upper body than training with ropes.

A couple of months post-“the SEAL” she had hooked up with a mountaineering guy for a while and done some rock climbing. That had been fun, and he'd been amazed at how strong she was, not to mention a little condescending. Romantically, he hadn't lasted long, either. Taylor could only close her mind to so much.

Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she locked the car and strolled toward the walled estate, enjoying the heat of the sun, and the mouthwatering views out over the bay.

Elaine Pierce wasn't happy to see her.

Taylor smiled. “I'm a debt collector. According to our records your husband failed to pay a number of bills relating to an address on Brady Street where you both had an interest in a condominium.” The condominium part, at least, was true.

Elaine Pierce was middle-aged and petite, with steely-blue eyes and short, dark hair. The untouched gray at the temples told Taylor that the ex-Mrs. Slater was of the “no frills” variety of ex-wife—which was interesting. Earl Slater had a reputation for liking the ladies.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you're a debt collector, I'm Santa Claus.”

Okay, so acting wasn't her best skill. “You're right, I'm not a debt collector. I'm Earl's girlfriend.”

The statement dropped into blank silence.

Elaine blinked, her gaze settling on the blond wig. Her cheekbones went a dull red. “You've got a nerve coming here.”

The door—solid teak, if Taylor was any judge—swung to, the movement so fast it took her by surprise. She jammed her foot in the gap, wincing when her instep got crushed. Elaine had just gone up about a hundred points in her estimation. Not many people suckered her like that.

Using her shoulder, she leveraged the door open enough that her foot didn't sustain any further damage. She liked her feet, and she liked them to be in good condition so she could run. In Taylor's opinion, running was one of the enduring pleasures of life; it frequently beat eating, conversation and, lately, company of the male kind.

Elaine's face, viewed through the hard-won six-inch gap, went scarlet. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on her upper lip. “I'm not paying you money. Haven't you gotten enough?”

She added a few unladylike and precisely worded phrases. But the most interesting part by far was that Slater
did
have a girlfriend.

Nothing in any of the surveillance records had mentioned anything about a romantic relationship, which meant he had been extra sneaky about it.

Taylor kept up the pressure. “Not yet. He left me. I need the money.”

The whining phrases, ground out while she pushed against Slater's ex-wife's door didn't quite carry the selling power she intended, but Taylor wasn't giving up until she got something she could use.

Abruptly, Elaine let the door go. Taylor clutched at the door frame to prevent herself from overbalancing and sprawling on the tiled floor of the hallway.

Elaine's hand landed in the center of Taylor's chest. She shoved, her expression livid. “Then earn it on your back at Tony's. You're not getting a cent out of me.”

The door slammed a bare inch from Taylor's nose.

She let out a breath. Life was good.

Slater had been dating a hooker. Which was why he had hidden the relationship—he hadn't wanted Lopez to know. As head of security, and an insider on cartel discussions, Slater was in a privileged and delicate position. Dating a hooker was a definite no-no. If Lopez had ever found out, Slater would have been wearing a concrete jacket at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

 

Tony's was a discreet bar and massage parlor at the edge of town. The wig now lying on the backseat, Taylor sat back and watched the entrance, sipping a coffee she'd picked up from a drive-through.

At this time of the day, late afternoon, nothing much was happening, which was predictable. After another fruitless half hour, where only a handful of men strolled in and out of the premises, she locked the car and walked across the road and into the bar. There were half a dozen guys just off work seated at tables and at the counter, and a couple of girls, trolling the crowd. Taylor ignored everyone but the bartender.