Gotcha! (4 page)

Why the hell was he thinking about that now? The answer rolled over him like a sputtering 18-wheeler. His mom expected him to attend the celebration that she was hosting in a couple of weeks for his grandfather’s hundredth birthday. He’d been a no-show last year, managed to avoid the newlyweds altogether. But this time his mom had made her feelings clear:
You
will
be there.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed back in his chair and focused on work. He had escaped-convicts and a different coincidence to figure out. Not that this was his case, but having ties to David Tanks, his captain would expect him to contribute. Jake prided himself on exceeding people’s expectations. He was no one’s charity case—not anymore.

Elbows bracketing the report, he focused on reading. Had Tanks orchestrated the breakout alone, or were all the inmates involved? The bullet that killed the fourth prisoner appeared to be from the same nine millimeter that had shot the guard.

Scanning the page, Jake digested what he’d read about the murdered inmate: Brandon Stafford, grand theft auto, five years down on a seven-year sentence.

“Why were you killed, Brandon?”

Thoughts about the guard, Hal Klein, raced through Jake’s mind. The last report that came in said the guard was still in surgery. Doctors weren’t optimistic, which meant that every law officer in Texas would be out to bring in the escapees. Jake stared at the guard’s name, remembered hearing that Klein was a father and a grandfather.

Hang tough, old man.

The next page contained the data about Tanks and the other two escaped inmates, Chase Roberts and Billy Moore. Jake’s eyes caught on the second name, and Ellie Chandler’s words echoed through his brain:
I love Billy now.

It couldn’t be, could it?

Thumbing through the pages, he searched to see if he had the most recent visitors log of the escaped inmates. He found it. The list went back three weeks, and the names were easily legible.
Faye Moore, mother. Bo Gomez, friend. Ellie Chandler—

Crap. It was the same guy.

But if these two criminals were in a dispute over a woman, why would they run off together? Something didn’t fit. He’d feel a lot better if he could find Miss Chandler. Where was she? Had she been part of the breakout? Before he’d gone there tonight, he’d called her home and cell phone. He’d left messages saying he wanted to help. She hadn’t called back.

He scanned the pages again. Ellie visited Billy at least four times a week. Then Jake’s gaze caught the last name on the visitor’s log: Macy Tucker, sister.

Pizza Girl.

“Son of a…That little liar!”

His gut had tried to tell him. Why the hell hadn’t he listened?

Because you were too busy listening with your dick.

He grabbed his gun and his handcuffs and headed for his car.

Suddenly conscious, all Hal Klein could think about was his chest pain. Was this a heart attack? He tried to remember things, important things, like what had happened. Yes, something had gone down. But what? Or was it still happening? He tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut—or maybe just heavy.

“Daddy?”

It was his daughter Melissa’s voice. But Hal couldn’t concentrate.

Danger. Fear. Emotions ran chaotic in his mind, fragments of dreams or perhaps reality. He didn’t know. The pain kept him from thinking clearly. He worked harder to open his eyes. He couldn’t. Words formed on his tongue, but he couldn’t spit them out. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

He heard a soft cry. His daughter’s. Was something wrong with Melissa? The feeling of danger pulled at his mind. Was someone hurting her? He had to help her, but—

“Don’t talk,” Melissa whispered. “Doctors say you’ll be fine. Steve’s here, too.”

His son was here? Where was here? The smells of the room began to register: rubbing alcohol, pine cleaner. Hospital smells. Yes, Melissa had said something about doctors. The pain in his chest registered again. Heart attack? No. Now he remembered David Tanks rising up from the flowerbed.

At first Hal thought he’d spotted a snake, because the inmate moved so fast. He should have been more suspicious. Tanks came for him, and there was no time to go for his gun. The bullet hit Hal, and Hal hit the ground. He almost passed out but fought it. If these were the last minutes of his life, he wanted them. Flat on his back, he watched Tanks aim his gun again. Hal tried to pull his weapon, but his arms were dead weights.

Then the kid—Billy—tackled Tanks. The two prisoners rolled around. Hal almost reached his weapon, but the inmate Roberts snatched it from his holster and took off. A bullet was fired. Not by Roberts, but from the gun Billy and Tanks fought over. The fourth inmate, Brandon Stafford, crumpled to the grass.

Billy broke free, gun in hand. He looked at Hal, and then at Stafford, who lay screaming. “I didn’t do that,” he said. “I didn’t shoot him.”

Tanks got up and moved forward. Billy raised the gun.

“Don’t,” Billy ordered, but his voice quavered.

Hal wasn’t the only one who heard. Tanks laughed. “You won’t shoot. You’re a coward.”

Right then, a car squealed to a halt beside them. “Get in!” yelled a man from the car.

“Give me a gun,” Tanks said to the driver.

But they had to go, said the man. Tanks yelled things at Billy, ugly things about what he planned to do to the kid’s sister, then the car pulled off.

“Daddy? Daddy?” Melissa’s voice rang out.

The pain in Hal’s chest grew worse. He heard beeping noises and more voices.

“You’re going to have to go,” someone ordered.

“What’s happening?” Melissa asked, fear and panic ringing in her voice.

Hal wanted to say something, something to let her know he was okay, but he couldn’t talk. Could hardly think, if not for the pain, then that damn bright light. “Get her out of here! We’re losing him! Losing…”

It was two in the morning when Macy pulled into her driveway. Exhausted, she grabbed her purse and the remaining pizza box and crawled out of her Saturn. She didn’t have a clue how to go about finding Billy or how to get him safely back to jail. She hoped that tomorrow she’d be thinking clearer and would come up with something.

As she crossed her front lawn, a blue van coasted past. Was it Billy? Hope rose in her chest, but the van kept going.

Looking at her house, she wondered if Billy had called. Eager to check her messages, she increased her pace. She got to her porch, key in hand, when she heard footsteps.

Not again.

“Gotcha!” A hand landed on her shoulder. “Police.” A cheek pressed close, a five-o’clock shadow scraped her skin, and a voice said, “I repeat,
police
, Pizza Girl. Did you hear me this time? If you throw that elbow back, or try anything with your knees, I’ll have cuffs on your wrists in two seconds flat.”

Macy’s mind flashed a mental picture of this cop’s almost smile. Somehow she didn’t think he was smiling now. But while her pin-prickling fear began to fade, wariness followed. Was Ellie right about Baldwin? On the heels of everything that had happened, Macy didn’t know what to believe. All she knew was what she’d repeated dozens of times to the FBI:
Yes, Billy manages to get himself into messes, but he’s not a murderer. He’d
never
kill anyone.

Squaring her shoulders, clutching her box of cold pizza, she tried to sound calm. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t like to be lied to.” Sergeant Baldwin’s hand stayed on her shoulder.

She turned to face him. “I never lied.” She kept the pizza box between them.

He moved forward, nudging the box to the side. “So, Miss Chandler ordered a pizza tonight? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Macy tilted her chin up. “Your intelligence is not for me to judge. As for your first inquiry, you’re right that Ellie never ordered a pizza. But I never said she did. You assumed it.”

He leaned in, his face inches from hers. “You said—”

“I said, ‘We’re open till twelve.’ I never said I was delivering a pizza there. It’s not my fault you do shoddy police work.” Damn. She shouldn’t have said that. Gritting her teeth, she vowed to keep her tongue in check.

His expression tightened, but he didn’t speak. Not that she minded. Backpedaling in her mind, she tried to think and speak rationally. Not easy. “I’ve had a bad day,” she said at last. “I just want to go to bed.” She fit her key into the front-door lock.

“Oh, hell no. You’ve got some explaining to do, lady.” The cop’s hand found her elbow.

Macy forced herself to speak calmly. “I’ve filled my quota of explaining for the night. Come back tomorrow.”

“You haven’t explained shit,” he argued.

“Not to you I haven’t. I spent the last hour with the FBI.”

“Try again,” he growled. “The FBI aren’t involved with state-prison breaks.”

“I know that,” she replied with a sigh. “And they wouldn’t say why they were there. But they were, so you’ve been outranked, and I’m tired.”

“Tired? Then let’s get this over with.” He motioned to the door as if they were both going inside.

“No.”
She backed up. “I know my rights, and I don’t recall inviting you in.”

He scowled. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be. You can either invite me inside, let me look around to make sure you’re not hiding your brother, then you can explain what’s going on, or”—he pulled out his cell phone—“I’m going to make a call, and I’ll have three patrol cars here in about five minutes. We’ll tear through your place while you sit handcuffed in one of those cars, waiting to be carted downtown to have your pretty face photographed.”

Pretty?

She ground her teeth, then snapped, “First, you’d need a search warrant. Second, you can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.”

“First, I don’t need a warrant when I have reasonable cause to believe there might be an escaped convict hiding out in your home and putting someone’s life in jeopardy. Second, you’ve lied and assaulted—”

“I didn’t lie. And the assault was only because—”

“Quit stalling.” He waved his cell phone. “Do I call or not?”

He was serious—she saw it in his eyes. “I’ve already talked to the FBI,” she complained.

“And now you’re going to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About why you weren’t up-front with me tonight. Why you’re so dead set against me coming in.” His right brow arched up. “Did you help your brother escape? Is he here?”

“No.”

“Prove it. Let me in.” He stared at her and waved the phone again. “Call, or not call?”

“Fine. Come in.” Fighting with him was more trouble than it was worth. She stormed inside and into the living room. The red light was blinking on her answering machine, making her heart pound. She dropped her purse on top of it, then set the pizza box on the coffee table. Weak-kneed, she collapsed on her sofa.

“Look around,” she suggested. “You’ll see no one is here. Ask your questions, but don’t expect drawn-out answers. I gave those to the FBI.”

The cop lingered outside, clearly wary. Finally, he came in and shut the front door. He scanned the room.

“You live alone?”

“With Elvis.” She looked around for the feline.

Baldwin’s gaze speared her. “Elvis. Does your smart mouth ever stop?”

A thump sounded from behind him. The cop swung around, his right hand dipping inside his shirt as if for his gun. Then his gaze met the cause of the thump. He froze. Elvis, on the ground in front of him, hissed and flicked his tail.

Satisfaction poured into Macy’s chest. She’d have to give the feline a treat for perfect timing. “Sergeant Baldwin, meet Elvis.”

Baldwin’s gaze cut to her, and she bit back a laugh. Then she saw her cat’s tail flicking in discontent.

“Elvis doesn’t like strangers,” she said. The cat’s ears flattened back and his gray fur fluffed out. He crouched down, hissing, and his yellow eyes rounded. Macy knew what came next; the question was if she would warn Baldwin. He didn’t deserve it. Then again, she really didn’t like the sight of blood.

“If I were you, I’d move back. Because in about two seconds, he’s going to jump. And I haven’t had him”—the cat sprang up in the air—“declawed.”

“Damn!” Baldwin yelled as Elvis caught his shoulder and used the cop to propel himself up onto a bookshelf. A moment later he jumped down and disappeared down the hall.

“I warned you.” Macy curled back on her sofa, fighting amusement.

Hand clapped to his shoulder, Baldwin swung around. Macy waited for him to lash out, to claim he’d have the cat put down for slashing him. Not that he could do it. She knew the law, but she still expected the guy to try to bully her. She waited, counting to ten, but he didn’t prove her right. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t
that
big of a bully.

“I’m bleeding.” He yanked his shirt away from his shoulder.

“Maybe you should seek medical attention. Cat scratch fever can be deadly.”

His blue gaze locked on her. “You never ease up, do you?”

“I’m tired. I’ve had a hellish day.”
Plus PMS
, she didn’t say. She cut her eyes to her purse-covered answering machine.
And a brother who needs me.

His gaze shot down the hall. “Well, I’m going to look around.”

“Go for it,” she said, wishing he’d hurry.

“Is Elvis going to attack again?” he asked as he walked off.

“I wouldn’t suggest you stick your head under the bed. Of course, someone could be hiding under there. So maybe you should.”

Surprisingly, she could have sworn she heard him laugh. Slumping back, she raked her palms over her shirt. Nan’s emergency safety pins now served as buttons.

Eyes closed, Macy suddenly realized her fear of Baldwin, and even her suspicions, had evaporated. Was she just so tired that she was forgetting to be afraid, or was she beginning to trust the guy? It hadn’t been very long. But she remembered him threatening to bring out more police. If he was working with David Tanks, would he do that? Not likely. Of course, nothing else made sense. Why had Billy run off with a man who’d threatened to kill him? Why was the FBI involved?

Baldwin’s footsteps sounded in the hall. As Macy opened her eyes, he walked past the living room and into the kitchen. Letting her eyelids flutter closed again, Macy leaned her head back.
Where are you, Billy?

Baldwin cleared his throat, and Macy snapped her eyes open to find him standing in front of her.

“Finished?” she asked.

“Just getting started.”

The cop wore a dark blue, long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned. Under it, he had on a white T-shirt. His jeans were well-worn, and were faded where they hugged his body as he lowered himself into a green recliner. Oddly enough, Macy compared how he fit the piece of furniture to how her ex had filled the chair. Baldwin’s hard frame, wide shoulders, and long legs made the chair look smaller. She figured him to be taller than her ex’s six feet. Baldwin probably weighed in around—she appraised his flat stomach, the snug fit of his jeans—maybe 210.

She stopped appreciating the man’s form as her gaze found his eyes, eyes that seemed to find her survey amusing.

“I’m tired,” she said. She wished he’d leave. She was feeling antsy, and the feeling grew as he glanced around the room.

“Where’s your phone?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

She fought the tightness in her voice. “Use your own.”

“Where’s your
phone
?”

She debated whether or not to lie, but she knew when she was beaten. Well, she almost knew. Throwing in the towel had never been easy. “Can’t you just call the FBI?”

“Where is it, Macy?”

Something about the way he said her name made her even more eager to see him gone. Accepting defeat, she yanked her purse off the end table.

He stood and eyed the machine’s flashing red light. “Did you really think I wouldn’t ask?”

She shrugged. “Actually, I did.”

“And your cell phone?” He pointed to her purse.

“Dead. Out of minutes. Out of money.”

“Convenient,” he said as if he didn’t believe her.

She pulled the phone from her purse and tossed it at him.

He caught it. Eyeing her suspiciously, he opened it, pushed a few buttons, and tossed it back at her. Then his gaze went back to the blinking red light on her answering machine.

His face was like granite. “Before I listen to this, is there anything you’d like to tell me? I’ll say you gave the information voluntarily.”

“Voluntarily?” She stiffened under his scrutiny. “I don’t know where Billy is or who’s on the machine. I’m not guilty of anything but loving my brother.”

He settled down on the couch, between her and the recorder. She scooted over, away from his body warmth. She expected him to hit the play button, but instead he shouldered back in the sofa and watched her squirm.

“Why were you at Ellie Chandler’s tonight?”

“I went to talk to her, but I didn’t know Billy had escaped. I went to see him today. He begged me to go see Ellie. And…I told all this to the FBI.”

“Where were you the rest of the afternoon?”

“I had a five-thirty shift. I went straight to work. It wasn’t until I left Ellie’s that I heard about the prison break. My mom had called me several times tonight at work, and that’s probably her on the answering machine. I didn’t call her back, and when I heard—” Emotion crowded her throat. “When I heard about the inmate who was killed, I thought it was Billy.”

“Why would you assume that? Did he tell you he was going to try to escape? Ask for help?” Suspicion thickened the policeman’s tone.

“No! He told me that another inmate wanted him dead. He said that the guards were afraid of this David Tanks person. He said Tanks has people on the outside who do things for the guards, and—”

“What kind of things?” the cop interrupted.

Macy shrugged “He didn’t say. And then Ellie said—”

“You talked to Ellie?” Baldwin leaned forward. “When did you talk to her?”

“I haven’t actually spoken with her. When I came home today, she’d left a message on my recorder.”

“I thought you went straight to work.” Suspicion again tightened his voice.

“I came home to get my money bag. After I went to the library.”

He nodded, but she couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. “What did Ellie say?”

“She said she was afraid Tanks was going to do something.”

Sergeant Baldwin’s eyebrows pinched together. “Did it occur to you to come to the police with the information?”

“I might have, if Ellie hadn’t already tried, but she said some cop was too busy staring at her boobs to listen. You wouldn’t happen to know that jerk, would you? Someone named Jake something?”

She could swear he flinched, but he didn’t comment. “And, that’s all you know? I’m not going to learn something else on this tape? They’ll go easier on you if—”

“That’s all I know,” she snapped.

He looked over at her answering machine. His gaze lowered, then froze. Leaning down, he picked up her gardening boots from under the end table. He turned them over. A clod of dirt from the church garden dropped onto her carpet. He stared.

She frowned, a little unnerved. “Don’t tell me. Boot fetish?”

The cop stared at her. “Did you wear these to see your brother today?”

“No.”

“They found boot prints at the prison, in the flowerbed where the gun was planted. When I take these in to be checked, the guys in the lab will know if they match,” he warned.

Macy clenched her jaw, furious, though unsure why his suspicions bothered her so much. Then understanding dawned: she’d been the one with reasons to distrust him, and she’d pushed those reasons aside. Had he? No.

“Take the boots. Have them tested,” she snapped. “But when those size sixes don’t match, I can promise—”

A resounding knock on the door brought both of them bolting from the sofa.

Baldwin stared at her. “Expecting anyone?” His hand reached inside his shirt and drew out a weapon.

“No!” She hurtled between him and the door. “Put the gun away.”