Gotcha! (8 page)

Macy sat tapping her sandals against the car floorboard. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw her front door blazing with the message dead bitch. It looked like blood. Had Tanks broken into her house and hurt Elvis? Fear backed with fury knotted her stomach. What kind of a person would hurt a helpless animal? The kind who would cut people’s heads off, of course. The man who wanted to hurt Billy…whom Billy had run off with? None of this made sense.

Not a fan of being ordered to stay put—damn that Baldwin—she clutched her hands in her lap and gazed at the uniformed officer who stood outside the car. His gun held high, his gaze flickered from the house to her. Macy looked away.

That’s when she saw it—the ten-speed bike parked on the other side of the porch.

“Nan!” Macy bolted out of the car. The armed officer followed inches behind.

Jake’s finger tapped the trigger of his gun, but stopped the moment he saw his elderly suspect. The woman swung around, paint still spewing, and sprayed him across the chest.

“Police,” he said.

The old woman stared at him.

Her thick gray hair held in a ponytail, she wore an orange T-shirt that read biker chic. Jake looked at the wall where the half the
F
of
FUCK
was sprayed over. He didn’t lower his gun. She didn’t lower the paint can. But at least she’d stopped spraying him.

Jake had been in a several standoffs, but never like this. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t want my granddaughter to see this.”

“Granddaughter?” He lowered his gun and stared at the red stripe across his chest.

“Nan!” Macy’s scream filled the house.

“In here,” the woman answered. “Don’t read the walls.”

Macy, handcuffs dangling from one wrist, flew past Jake and wrapped her arms around the old woman. “I thought…”

The officer from the kitchen ran into the bedroom. “I nearly shot her!” he said.

“I’m still considering shooting her,” remarked the officer he’d left at the car. The young man’s pained expression and fisted hand on his upper thigh told the rest of the story. She really had to watch where she threw her knee.

Not that Jake doubted that she’d been aiming for any place but where the knee had landed.

An hour later, Macy sat on her sofa with Nan. “Don’t tell Mom about this,” Macy said. She snatched a pillow and hugged it. “Where is she?”

Nan frowned. “She wanted to stay home and cry today, but I talked her into going to the hospital. She can cry there just as good as she can cry at home.” When Macy slumped against the sofa, Nan patted her leg. “Your mom’s gonna be fine. She just needs to cry it out.”

“Duh? She’s been crying for over a decade.”

“Yeah. I figure she should be stopping any day now.”

Pillow still hugged close, Macy watched the cops skitter around like roaches. They were everywhere, different cops in different uniforms, and some in plain clothes. Every few minutes, one of the roaches—the one with a red stripe across his shirt—would wink at her. Why was he doing that? And why had he kissed her? Just what sort of idea had she given him?

Mark Donaldson plopped down beside her on the couch. He introduced himself to Nan, then focused on Macy. “You okay?”

“Dandy.” She tried to smile. Mark seemed like a nice guy, and for some reason she found him harmless. At least, he was harmless compared to how Sergeant Baldwin made her feel.

She raised her right hand and the handcuffs danced in the air. “Got a hacksaw?”

Donaldson chuckled. “They’re thinking about having your knee declared a lethal weapon and making you register it.”

Grimacing, Macy stared at the painted words on the wall:
Fuck
and
Die
. Fear played a slow tune on her heart.

As Baldwin appeared, fear vanished. Or really it just changed tempo. She’d already admitted that this man scared her.

Jake nudged Donaldson aside—not physically, but with a look. The blond cop moved to a chair, and Jake lowered his six-feet-plus frame next to Macy. His jean-covered thigh pressed warm against hers. She scooted closer to Nan.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

“Why?”

He dangled a key in front of her. “I talked Thompson into forgiving you.”

“He’s a wuss. I didn’t hit him half as hard as I hit you.”

“Hold your tongue,” Nan commanded. “And give him your arm.” Her gaze went to Baldwin. “She gets mouthy when she’s scared.”

“I figured that out.” Baldwin winked at Nan. His smile oozed charm, and Nan responded with a grin of her own.

Great. Now the man was flirting with her grandma.

Nan leaned in. “The ball busting might be my fault. I taught her to do it.”

“You taught her well.” A smile filled Baldwin’s blue eyes. He removed the cuffs, then gently rubbed Macy’s wrist.

She jerked away and glanced at the clock. “How much longer will this take?”

Jake glanced around. “I think they’re almost done. I’ve never seen CSI move so quick.”

Donaldson sat forward. “That’s because of the FBI.”

Macy looked back at Jake. “I’ve got to leave in an hour.”

“Where to?” Baldwin’s brow wrinkled.

Macy scowled. “I have to clear my schedule with you?”

“Since an escaped convict is trying to kill you,” he said in tense voice, “yeah.”

The front door swung open, and two men wearing suits crossed the threshold as if they owned the joint. Macy recognized one of them. “What, my doorbell isn’t working?” she asked.

“Behave,” Baldwin snapped.

Agent James’s gaze moved from wall to wall before focusing on Baldwin. The look in the FBI agent’s eyes predicted bad news. “Can I have a word with you?” he asked.

Baldwin rose from the sofa. Macy popped up beside him. Nan shot up, too.

Macy and Nan asked in unison, “Is Billy okay?”

Hal had just settled into his new room and got the damn tube out of his pecker when the urge to pee hit. He almost called the nurse, but hated feeling useless. Pulling himself up, he managed to get his legs to the side of the bed. He inched off the mattress, tested his footing, and found himself shaky but mobile. One hand on the bed, he reached for his IV pole.

Cold air breezed over his bare ass. The door squeaked open, followed by a soft yelp. He’d just mooned himself another victim.

“Goddamn it.” He looked over his shoulder. The same volunteer from the ICU stood in his doorway, her blue eyes zeroed in on his behind. His knees weakened. “Could you give me a hand? Before I fall on my ass?” he grunted.

She rushed forward and wrapped her arm around his waist. His naked waist. She nudged him toward the bed.

“I’m not getting in,” he growled. “I’m getting out.”

She sniffled. He glanced up. The woman had tears in her eyes.
Again.

“I know my ass isn’t pretty, but I didn’t think it could bring a woman to tears.”

She blinked. “You need to get in bed.”

“I
need
to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll get you the bedpan,” she said in a hiccupping voice.

“I’m not using a damn bedpan. Help me to the john.”

“I’m not a nurse,” she argued.

“It’s not surgery,” he countered. “I just want to take a piss.”

She sniffled but moved toward the bathroom. “You shouldn’t be so stubborn.”

“I’m sorry,” he seethed. “But getting shot by a damn jailbird put me in a piss-poor mood.” Hearing her take a sharp breath, he studied her face again. “Do I know you?”

She opened the bathroom door. “Can you manage from here?” Her voice trembled.

He continued to study her nice, familiar face. Right then he became aware that he held her waist, aware that her arm pressed sweetly around his hip. His naked hip. It had been a long time since he’d touched or been touched by a woman, and damn if a tightness didn’t stir low in his belly. He almost jerked away, but he knew he’d land flat on his face, bare ass up. So he grabbed the doorjamb. “I’m fine.”

He shut the door and rolled his IV pole to the toilet. Too weak to do his business like a man, he sat down. Down was easy. Getting up would be hell. He heard a door squeaking as if she’d fled. Great. He was stuck on the pisser until someone came in. Or until he got desperate enough to ring the dang buzzer.

A nurse poked her nose in the door. “You should have called someone,” she chided.

“I had someone, but she ran off.”

I’d like her back, too.
The thought came out of nowhere, but it was true. He wanted to see that woman again, to figure out if he knew her. To figure out why her touch had stirred things he’d thought were all through stirring.

The corners of the nurse’s lips tightened. “You’re going to be a troublemaker, aren’t you?”

He thought about it. “Probably.”

“Baldwin?” Agent James nodded toward the front door and motioned.

Macy’s grandma grabbed the Fed by the arm. “Is Billy okay?”

“As far as we know,” the man replied.

Jake gently pulled the old woman off him. “I’ll be right back.” He sent Macy a look that he hoped promised he’d explain.

He followed Agent James outside. “What’s up?”

The agent stared at the painted door. “This guy needs to be caught.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jake replied. “You guys taking over the scene?”

James waved away an insect. “Let’s just say we’ll be looking over Harris County’s shoulder.” He leaned back on his heels. “You said that when Ellie Chandler came to see you, she appeared afraid of Tanks?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed her?” he asked.

Jake considered the question. “Didn’t you hear the message she left on Macy’s recorder?”

James handed the tape back. “We made copies.” He paused. “You think Miss Chandler was telling the truth.”

“Yeah, I do.” Jake paused. “Why?”

“We spoke to Hal Klein, the prison guard.”

“He’s awake? He gonna make it?” Jake asked.

“Looks like. You were right about Moore. Klein says Moore and Tanks didn’t run off together. Moore stopped Tanks from shooting the guard a second time. They fought. The gun went off during the scuffle. That’s how the other inmate took a bullet.”

“So that’s why Billy ran. He got scared.”

“According to Klein, Tanks threatened Moore’s sister. Klein thinks Moore left to protect her.”

“I believe that.” Jake had been hit with the overwhelming desire to protect her, too.

Skepticism etched the agent’s face. “Or maybe he just decided to take advantage of the opportunity. He hasn’t contacted her yet, has he?”

“No.” Jake studied the paint-chipped house. “My gut says this kid isn’t bad. I read his sheets. Nothing really serious until the convenience store, and he swore up and down he didn’t know they were robbing the place.”

“Don’t you think every driver of every getaway car says the same thing?” Agent James asked.

“Maybe, but perhaps this one is telling the truth.” Jake brushed a fly away. “Why the questions on Ellie Chandler?”

“She cleaned out her checking account and hasn’t shown up at work in two days.”

Jake crossed his arms over his chest. “I assume she’s with Billy. He probably contacted her after—”

“We assumed that, too. But we checked the recent calls Tanks made from prison. Her number showed up six times last week. According to the guard, the getaway car was a gold Cavalier. The same make and description as Chandler’s.”

That information bounced around Jake’s head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Another fly buzzed past the agent’s face. “Neither does the fact that the boots we found at her place are a match for the prints found in the flowerbed where the gun was buried.”

“She helped with the breakout?” Jake was shocked.

“Looks like it,” James said. “Sure as hell looks like it.”

Jake recalled his visit with Ellie. He had her pegged as a ditz, but he didn’t think she would have done this. “It doesn’t fit.”

“It seldom does.” The agent shifted in place.

The words
Dead Bitch
caught Jake’s eye. His gut clenched. “You’re going to have someone on her, right?”

“If we knew where Chandler was—”

“Not Ellie. Macy Tucker.”

The agent frowned. “We don’t have the manpower to put someone on her full-time. I thought you said you were going to watch her. You and your department can—”

“I can’t be here all the time. And he’s after her. And having a car ride by isn’t—”

“He
was
after her. He has to know that the law will be on to him after this. If he’s got half a brain he’ll be trying to get out the state. I’ve got most of my men at the borders now.”

“The guy’s meaner than he is smart,” Jake said.

Agent James swatted at another bug. “We’ll do what we can. But our first priority is catching Tanks, not protecting Miss Tucker. If you can keep watching her, I’d do so. But I don’t think this guy is stupid enough to hang around.”

“That’s what everyone thought this morning, too.”

“Then make her your personal project. I can only do so much.”

Macy stepped into the shower. She felt even more vulnerable when she reread the vulgar graffiti on the wall. Frantically scrubbing a washcloth over it, she felt panic drum through her ears. Soap and water wouldn’t fix this. But while fear crawled like fuzzy spiders along her spine, she knew that if she let herself be consumed by it she was letting that bastard win. Better to just get mad. He wasn’t going to win!

Adjusting the water temperature, she stood under the hot spray and willed herself to relax—willed herself to believe Billy was still okay. Was he with Ellie? What if Agent James was right? What if Ellie had helped with the escape?

“That doesn’t make sense,” she’d told Baldwin.

“I know,” he’d said, and then launched into a dozen reasons why she shouldn’t go to work. She’d just as quickly launched into a dozen reasons why she should.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he’d snapped.

“No. It gets worse on weekends.”

He’d looked as though he didn’t have a clue how to deal with her. Admittedly, she didn’t have a clue how to deal with him. She was also completely at a loss as to why Baldwin cared. She’d been shocked that he’d told her what he and Agent James had spoken about. When had the cop decided to trust her?

Not that she was complaining, but—Okay, she was complaining. She didn’t want to like this man, and she already did. If he started trusting her, she was a tiny baby step away from trusting him in return. Really trusting him. And trusting someone led to depending on them. She’d learned the hard the way that depending on men could land you in a world of hurt. Look at her mom.

Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and determined to avoid harm from murderers and hunky cops alike, she stepped into the living room wearing her Papa’s Pizza polyester. Baldwin stood up from her recliner.

“You’re really going to do it?”

“If by ‘do it’ you mean rob a bank, no, I’ve reconsidered. I found out I don’t deal with cops very well.”

He frowned.

She frowned back. “I’ve got to go to work.”

“Take the night off.” He spoke between gritted teeth.

“And what about tomorrow, or the next night? What if you don’t catch him this month?” She imagined getting axed by Mr. Prack, unable to pay her bills, crying her eyes out and living with Nan. She was her mother’s daughter after all, so an unending tearfest wasn’t farfetched. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I heard that FBI guy tell someone he bet Tanks has already left the state.”

“What if he’s wrong? Have you read the messages Tanks left you? That isn’t love poetry.”

“They’re just words,” Macy said. Fake courage was better than no courage at all. “I appreciate this”—she waved to the plywood he’d nailed over her broken window—“and you staying last night. Which, for the record, I never asked you to do.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “CSI needs to run one more check for fingerprints. I told them someone would be here.”

“Well, this someone has to go to work. Make yourself at home.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s beer in the fridge.” She pointed back to the entryway. “Please, lock the door when you leave. ’Bye.”

She was almost out the door when she heard him talking.

“She’s leaving.” His voice held buckets of frustration. “Make sure you do.”

Macy two-stepped it back into her living room. Hit again by how darn gorgeous Sergeant Baldwin was, she had to fight to remember why she’d stomped back. “Make sure who does what?”

He snapped his phone shut. “The FBI is following you.”

She started stuffing her hair under her hat. “They’re not following me because of Tanks, though, are they? They think I know where Billy is.”

Baldwin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Are you stupid enough not to want the help? Are you too dumb to be scared?”

I’m scared
, she admitted to herself,
but I’m not going to let that freak win
. “If I don’t go to work, I’ll lose my job,” she reminded him. And it was true. Mr. Prack would do cartwheels at the chance to fire her. That wasn’t going to happen. “Besides, everyone but you seems to think he’s long gone.”

Billy waited outside the empty house for three hours, watching the shadows deepen and waiting for Tanks to show up. Where was he? Had Brandon lied about the address?

Exhaling a puff of stale air, Billy ran his tongue along the inside of his lip. The taste of blood lingered. Mace was right. He needed to stop biting himself. Gripping his fist, he swore he’d stop. He wasn’t going to continue to do stupid things.

The walls of the van seemed to close in on him. He slipped out of the vehicle and ducked into the shadows lining the house. If he could just get inside, maybe he’d find a clue that would tell him where Tanks was. The sound of his footfalls echoed in the empty street.

The golden glow of the sun had faded to gray. With his back against the house, he reached under his shirt and wrapped his hand around his gun. Fear fogged his mind as he peeked into the window. He’d checked earlier to see if anyone was home, but better safe than sorry. Better safe than dead. Tanks wouldn’t think twice about killing him. Billy only hoped to kill the bastard first.

Cheek pressed against the cool glass window pane, he studied the kitchen’s peeling linoleum floors and scarred pine table. When he saw no one, heard only the hum of the refrigerator, he tried to lift the window. The heavy frame wouldn’t budge.

He moved to the door and grasped the knob. It twisted. He pushed it open, the hinges squeaking. Dead still, he waited and listened. Time seemed suspended. The hum of the fridge grew louder. A drip of sweat rolled down his forehead. Did he have what it took to kill Tanks?

He moved through the kitchen into the living room. The whole place smelled like dirty socks, as if only men lived here. Women always made things smell good. Ellie smelled good. It was hard to keep his mind off her.

Just enough gray-dusk light came in through the window so he could see. A pizza box lay on the coffee table. The idea that Macy delivered pizza to people like Tanks made his gut twist. He thought again about calling that Baldwin cop. And he needed to call Ellie, too.

Beside the pizza box lay a book of matches with the silhouette of a naked woman. girls galore was printed across the front. A titty bar. He and one of his friends had sneaked into one once with fake IDs.

On the end table lay a pad with a number scratched across it. Billy picked up the phone and dialed.

“Girls Galore,” someone answered.

Billy hung up.

Girls Galore. Was Tanks there? Billy took a step toward the door, but the unnatural silence beckoned him to stop. He walked down the hall. The first bedroom held only a bed and a pile of dirty clothes. He made his way to the second bedroom. Pitch darkness swelled inside.

Using the barrel of the gun, he hit the light switch. “Fuck!” He jumped back but didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Bile rose in his throat. A man lay faceup on the floor, eyes open. They were empty eyes. The man’s throat was slashed, and blood, a lot of blood, soaked the beige carpet. Its coppery smell filled Billy’s nose.

Gagging, Billy ran back to the living room and threw up on the carpet. When he stopped puking, he saw the phone book lying open on the sofa. He blinked and stared at the number underlined in red.
Papa’s Pizza.

“You got it bad for her, don’t you?” Donaldson asked.

“Just hold the glass.” Kneeling in Macy’s living room, Jake removed a piece of the broken glass. CSI had called and said they’d gotten several good prints and wouldn’t need to come back. They hadn’t gotten the results yet. Not that Jake needed proof who’d done this.

Unlike Agent James and the Gulf Coast Task Force, Jake wasn’t sure Tanks would be satisfied with spray painting Macy’s walls. Not when his intent had obviously been to do more. He wasn’t the sort to give up. Jake recalled why he’d put the man away in the first place.

“You can pay people to fix windows, you know,” Donaldson said.

“What? You don’t like getting dirty?”

Donaldson shot him a go-to-hell look. “She doesn’t know you’re doing this, does she?”

Jake squirted the glazing compound into the window seal. “Just helping her out.” The task force wasn’t going to take it upon themselves to watch Macy full-time, so she was stuck with him. He didn’t mind one iota. The problem was, Macy didn’t share the sentiment.

Donaldson watched him. “Where did you learn to do this?” he asked.

“Habitat for Humanity.”

“You worked for them?” Donaldson asked.

“I volunteered.” Sons of Baptist preachers always volunteered. And wasn’t that what he was doing now, being a Good Samaritan and fixing Macy’s window? Without her permission?

Oh, hell, Donaldson was right. He had it bad. Then again, she had said for him to make himself at home. At home, if something was broken, he’d—

“Did you ever meet President Carter?” Donaldson asked.

“We have lunch once a month,” Jake retorted.

“He’s a friend of my dad’s, too.”

Jake glanced up. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh.” Silence fell while he worked. “I’m surprised you aren’t following her.”

“When Agent James found out she was going to work, he decided it might be worth his while to have her tailed in case her brother tried to contact her.” If Jake thought Macy wouldn’t have fought him, he would have insisted on being the one watching her.

“Is that who you’ve called? Twice?”

Yeah, he’d called the Fed. He was just making sure the guy was doing his job.

“Okay, I’m interested in her,” he admitted to Donaldson. “Does it matter?” He moved away from the window pane. “Unless you’d like to hit on her yourself.”

“Hey. I backed off when I got the look,” Donaldson replied.

Jake finished securing the window. Satisfied that the other detective was really backing off, that Macy would be okay, and that his handiwork was sufficient, he folded his arms over his chest. Would this get him brownie points with Macy, or would she accuse him of overstepping his boundaries? Brownie points would be nice. He knew exactly how he’d spend them.

“What now?” Donaldson asked.

“You know how to use a brush?” Jake picked up a can of Kilz.

“You’re joking. You want us to paint her house, too?”

“Not paint it all, just cover the graffiti with some primer. Why, you scared of a little manual labor, Golden Boy?”

Donaldson reached for the can. “I’ll help, but only because you brought me breakfast,” he grumbled.

“I guess now wouldn’t be the time to tell you that I actually bought it for Macy.”

Both men laughed, then they positioned several plastic drop cloths and started splashing primer on the walls.

Dipping his brush into the can for the fifth time, Jake looked at the other man. “You must really be bored.”

“Why? Because I’m helping your sorry ass get lucky instead of trying to get lucky myself?”

“Yeah.” Jake grinned. “What’s with that?”

“I’ve only been here a month. I haven’t met anyone yet.” Donaldson dropped his brush and picked up one of the beers they’d raided from the fridge.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“Just picky.”

An hour later, they had the graffiti covered. Jake grabbed them each another beer. He’d have to refill Macy’s fridge, he realized, but he’d been planning to do that anyway. Dropping into a recliner, he faced Donaldson, who sat on the sofa. The memory of watching Macy sleep there filled his mind. Anticipation of seeing her tonight brought a stirring low in his belly.

Not wanting to start down that road, he shot Golden Boy another question. “What was it like growing up rich?”

Donaldson raised an eyebrow. “Fantastic.” He didn’t offer any other comment.

“So even the rich and famous have ugly childhoods.”

Donaldson cut him a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”

“If rumors are true, you’ve got more money than God and an education to match. I figure your becoming a cop was a way of throwing all that fancy schooling back in your parents’ faces.”

The tightness in Donaldson’s eyes told Jake he’d tapped a nerve. “What? Are you trying to save my soul and stop me from disrespecting my parents, preacher’s boy? Guess I’ve heard a few rumors, too, huh?”

Jake leaned back in the recliner. “That’s fair. Who told you my dad was a preacher?”

“It’s common knowledge. Rumor is you never go to church, but you still pray before you pull your weapon.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Jake palmed his beer.

Donaldson eyed the bottle in his own hands. “We should.” After a moment, he looked at the clock. “What time is she due home?”

“Midnight.”

“And you’re going to be here?”

Jake grinned. “You think I did this for nothing?”

“You believe you’ll get lucky because you played handyman?”

“No. Just to second base.”

Both men laughed. Macy didn’t seem like the kind who jumped into bed with a man very fast. Jake wasn’t above trying to change her mind, though.

He eyed the walls and decided he’d share his suspicion with Donaldson. “Remember those home-robbery cases that were tagged with red paint?”

The other cop’s eyes widened. “You think this is connected?”

“I don’t know. I mean, Tanks was in prison. And I know he did this, but…” He let his thoughts run around his brain. “Maybe whoever helped him was involved with those.”

“Sounds like a long shot,” Donaldson said.

Jake’s cell phone rang. He said, “That’s why I didn’t mention it to the task force.” Then he answered the call. “Hello?”

“Baldwin?” It was his buddy Stan, with Homicide. “You called. What’s up?”

“I needed someone to give me a hand replacing a window. But I found someone else.”

Stan snorted. “I’m glad I missed your call. Hey…” The man’s tone changed. “Did you get with the Clear Lake detectives about that headless floater?”

“We talked,” Jake admitted.

“Good. So where you at now? It’s after work. Tell me you’re out with a woman for a change.”

Jake glanced at Donaldson, who picked up a book off Macy’s end table. “Maybe soon.” If he didn’t get his ass kicked by said woman for trying to help her.