Jailhouse Glock (9 page)

As much as she hated the idea, the entire upper floor of her house was sitting empty, waiting for her to get the extra cash to decorate the front bedroom for Jessie. There were actually two bedrooms upstairs and a full bath, and if she could get a couple of college kids or maybe even a flight attendant or two to rent from her, that would definitely make her life easier.

Jessie would be disappointed. She'd been waiting ever since the remodeling was finished to move from the tiny bedroom downstairs
to her own private digs upstairs. But she'd understand. Besides, it was
only temporary, and as soon as Maddy was cleared of Bernardi's murder, things would go back to their normal live-from-paycheck-to-paycheck routine.

She parked the car and nearly sprinted to the store, thinking if she didn't just go and do it, she'd change her mind. Thirty minutes later, she emerged with the biggest ROOM FOR RENT sign they had and was already thinking what else she could do to stimulate her cash flow.

Too bad she couldn't use the twenty-five grand that whoever was trying to frame her had deposited into her bank account.

Then there was the little issue of finding out from her daughter why Tony Pirelli had an eight-by-ten of her talking to Bernardi on their porch. If anyone was counting, that made twice now that her daughter had been in close proximity to a really bad guy.

What the hell kind of cop was she that she couldn't even protect her own daughter?

Driving home, she thought about how one goes about renting out a room in one's house. What would she say to the people who she absolutely did not want around her daughter without provoking a discrimination suit?

And was there a renter's agreement she could download from the Internet? Would it be simple enough for someone of her pay grade to figure out? Maybe this was something she could ask her hot new lawyer.

Thinking about how Tony Pirelli had looked that morning in his charcoal gray suit—a suit she was sure had not come off a rack—made her smile. After going through all these months without even one date, what was going on with her libido? In the course of twenty-four hours, she'd already thought seriously about getting it on with not one, but two complete strangers.

Maybe she was more like the brunette at the bar than she wanted to believe.

Or—oh, dear Lord—my sister.

ten

Rolando Soliz smiled at
Mary Ellen Davidson when he passed the nurses' station with a cart full of clean linen. For the entire two weeks he'd been on the job at Vineyard Regional Hospital he'd had his eye on the petite young nurse. With her strawberry blond hair and all those freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, she was the proverbial girl-next-door—and definitely virginal. He'd overheard her telling one of the other nurses how she believed in one man, one marriage.

Too bad he wouldn't see her again after today. He'd have loved to have had a taste of that sweet body.

Turning the corner he continued down the hall and immediately saw Jeff Flanagan sitting outside Room 402. Rolando didn't anticipate any problems with the cop this morning, since he and Jeff had become friends of sorts. He'd done his homework, so chatting up the cop assigned to guard the prisoner in that room had been a piece of
cake from the start. Pretending to be a single father himself, Rolando
had dropped a casual remark about how hard it was to spend Thanksgiving without his son. And voila! He'd created an instant connection.

He and his boss had been planning today's details for several weeks
, and so far, his part had gone off without a hitch. Rolando had been hired on the spot when he'd applied for the job at Regional. With fake credentials from several East Coast hospitals, and a nursing home administrator willing to pad his resume after he'd sweet-talked his way into her bed, he'd been a shoe-in.

Seems orderlies were at a premium these days. One look at his six-foot frame and chiseled upper arms and the director of nurses had
him signing on the dotted line. By the time she finally got around to that little chore, he'd be long gone.

“Hey, Sergeant Flanagan,” he said, rolling the cart up next to the cop. “How's it going today?”

Jeff Flanagan looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on and smiled when he recognized Rolando. “Hey, my man, things are good. Foxworthy's been screaming all morning for more drugs, though. The guy's worse than my five-year-old when it comes to pain.”

Rolando nodded. “I hear you. Get ready for more bellyaching. I'm about to clean him up before lunch.” He pushed the door open with the cart and headed into the room.

Alan Foxworthy opened his eyes long enough to grunt. “Oh no you don't. I hurt too damn bad to let you anywhere near me. I'm still in misery from that walk you tortured me with earlier.” He shook his head. “Get the hell out of my room.”

“How do you ever expect to get back to normal if you stay in that bed all day?” Rolando opened the door to the nightstand and pulled out a basin. After filling it with warm water, he brought it over and set it down. Leaning over the bed, he whispered, “I trust you told that cop what you were supposed to about getting shot in your jail cell, right?”

Foxworthy's eyes flew open, and he stared at the orderly. “How do you know about that?”

Rolando laughed. “You don't seriously think the man would put you in the hospital without a little backup, do you?”

Although Foxworthy shook his head, his eyes remained skeptical and never once left Rolando's face.

Rolando pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number before hit
ting the speaker button and laying it on the stand that stretched across
Foxworthy's bed. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered.

“I'm here with Foxworthy, boss,” Rolando announced.

“Terrific. No problems with the cop?”

“None. It was almost too easy,” he said, sneaking a glance over his shoulder to make sure Flanagan hadn't overheard him talking.

“Cops think they're so damn smart.” There was a chuckle on the
other end. “So, Alan, I wanted to congratulate you on a job well
done.”

Foxworthy perked up. “Yeah, boss, but I never counted on Bernardi beating the shit out of me. Thought someone would intervene way before I got hammered.”

“That was a chance we took, Alan—a chance you took when you accepted the stack of bills I handed you.”

Foxworthy attempted to sit up and fell back onto the pillow,
squealing in pain.

The door opened in a flash and Flanagan rushed in. “Everything all right in here?”

Rolando quickly covered the phone with a towel before making eye contact with Flanagan. “Alan just tried to sit up too quickly.” He pointed to the basin of warm water. “And we haven't even started his bath yet.” He rolled his eyes.

Flanagan smirked, then turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Coast is clear, boss,” Rolando said as soon as he felt sure the cop was back in his chair and working on the puzzle again.

“Sorry about the gunshot wound, Alan,” the voice continued. “Rolando tells me you're coming around nicely.”

“If you call shitting in a bag coming along nicely, then hell yes, I am. I thought you were only going to shoot me in the arm or leg. Your dumbass girlfriend aimed directly at my stomach. The fucking
bullet tore my colon in half. You didn't pay me enough for this bull
shit.” Alan's hands were shaking as his voice grew louder. “I want more money.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone as Rolando reached
for the syringe under the stack of towels on the cart. He
knew where this conversation was headed and how it would end up. Nobody shook down the boss and walked away happy.

“Alan, I don't think you're in any position to make demands right now. We'll talk as soon as you get out of the hospital.” There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “What did the sheriff say when you told him it was the lady cop who killed Bernardi and shot you?”

“What do you think he said. He didn't want to believe me. The bitch is his sister-in-law.” He stopped to take a sip of water and then wiped his mouth before continuing, “Listen, man, I've done everything you've asked me to and more. You said I'd only spend one night in jail and take a bullet in the arm. You haven't lived up to your end of the deal so far. This morning the doc told me that I'm looking at one more surgery—maybe two—to reconnect my goddamn bowel after it heals. Who's gonna pay for that, huh?”

“I told you I'd take care of you. Like I said, we'll talk when you get out of the hospital. My guess is they'll release you without sending you back to jail.”

“You'd better make damn sure that's what happens. Another night
in that jail cell and I might be coerced into singing like a bird, if you get my drift.” Alan grabbed his abdomen and grunted. “Dammit, Rolando, don't just stand there. Get me some fucking drugs.”

“Boss?” Rolando was already pulling up the medicine into the
syringe.

“Do it.”

Before Foxworthy could comprehend what was about to go
down, Rolando shoved the needle into the rubber stopper on his IV tubing and injected the sodium potassium with one swift push. Grabbing a towel, he covered the man's mouth so he couldn't scream. Although Foxworthy struggled, he was no match for Rolando, and in less than a minute, his body bucked and then went limp. It didn't take a neurosurgeon to know that Alan Foxworthy would never be in pain again and sure as hell wouldn't be doing any bird imitations any time soon.

Rolando emptied the unused bathwater and stood silently in the back of the room waiting, knowing that Flanagan would get suspicious if he finished up with Foxworthy's morning care too quickly. When he figured enough time had elapsed, he shoved the cart through the door and followed behind. Flanagan was concentrating on the crossword puzzle and didn't even bother to look up.

He wheeled the cart down the hall toward the nurses' lounge, knowing the room would be empty since this was the busiest time of the day on the unit. Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door and walked to the elevator. On the ride down, he patted the airline ticket tucked into his jacket pocket to make sure it was still there. When the elevator stopped on the ground floor, he did exactly what he'd
done every day for the past two weeks. He waved to the security guard chatting with one of the EMTs who had just brought in a patient. Then
he smiled to himself and walked through the ER automatic doors.

When he reached his SUV, he looked over his shoulder for one last look at the hospital before sliding into the front seat and turning the key. Steering the car into traffic, he headed for DFW airport. The boss had made all the arrangements for a first-class seat on the first leg of a trip that would take him to a six-room villa. There, he would find a dark-skinned call girl waiting to welcome him to beautiful Mexico City.

_____

Jake kept a little more than two car lengths between him and the lady cop. This wasn't the first time he'd tailed someone—he knew the tricks of doing it without getting made. As a cop, the woman's observational skills would be honed more than the average person's. The last thing he needed was for her to notice him following her.

He'd waited in his car halfway down the block while she went into
the hardware store, confused when she'd come out carrying some kind
of sign. Although he was too far away to see what it said, he was curious why someone who had supposedly killed a man in cold blood a few nights before would need a yard sign. Was she already anticipating going to jail and having to sell her house?

When she pulled into the garage on a street in an older neighborhood in Vineyard, he made sure he was far enough away that she wouldn't notice his pickup as he eased the vehicle to the curb. Looking around, he figured the houses on the street to be in the middle income range with some newer than others. The home the woman entered looked to be much older, but well kept. Fresh paint, double-pane windows that had been recently installed, and newer board on the fence. If all the pretty updates were recent, that could add up to big bucks fast. Replacing the many windows on a two-story house like that didn't come cheap, and the last time he'd checked, cops didn't make a ton of money.

He sat in the truck watching the house for thirty minutes and was just about to call it a day and head back to the hotel when her front door opened. She emerged, carrying the sign she'd bought at the hardware store. She chose a spot in the front yard and began to pound it into the ground. Reaching into the glove compartment, he grabbed his binoculars.
He couldn't make out what
the sign
said with her standing directly in front of it.

Then she bent over to pick up something in the grass, and the binoculars shifted to her backside where her slacks were now strain
ing against a perfectly shaped ass. He couldn't help himself and
whistled, cursing the fact that the woman would be hands-off to him
. Remembering the way she'd nailed him with a stare at the bar, he would've loved the opportunity to explore the possibilities. Especially if her backside was any indication of how spectacular the rest of her body would be, and he was pretty sure it would be.

When she turned and walked to the mailbox, he quickly refocused the binoculars on the sign. ROOM FOR RENT. He scratched his head. Something didn't make sense. He'd picked up a newspaper while she was in the hardware store and read about the murder. The article had implied the motive for Bernardi's death was money since they'd found a significant chunk of change recently deposited in her bank account. But if, as he suspected, her accounts were frozen, then she'd still need more money. But renting a room in her house?

She walked up the sidewalk with the mail, stopping one last time to stare at the sign in the front yard. His binoculars were trained on
her face, and Jake could have sworn he saw a tear roll down her cheek.
Then she disappeared into the house.

He sat out in his truck for fifteen minutes, trying to decide what his next move should be. He was being paid to find out all he could about Gino Bernardi and just because the man was dead, it didn't mean his job was over. He was on a mission. Positive the lady cop knew a lot more than she was letting on, he figured he'd do well to keep her in his sights.

As he stared at the sign in the front yard, an idea popped into his head. What better way to do that than to live under the same roof and observe her in her element?

The paper had said Madelyn Castillo was a rookie cop, widowed many years ago—a single mother raising a ten-year-old daughter. The article also said that some fancy lawyer from Dallas had agreed to defend her, and Jake knew from experience that legal help like that came with a hefty cash commitment.

He knew he was taking a chance she might recognize him from the bar, but even if she did, he'd at least get to talk to her face-to-face. His commanding officer always said that his initial impressions upon meeting a person of interest were always spot on. He hoped that would be true today since he might not get the opportunity to stay close enough to her to watch her every move if this room thing didn't work out. He grabbed the phone from his shirt pocket and called his boss.

“Hey, Jake, I was just thinking about you. Anything new on Bernardi?”

“Not on him, but I've got a chance to chummy up with the woman
accused
of killing him.”

“Terrific,” the voice on the other end said. “If anyone knows how to get close to a woman, it's you, Jake.”

Although that was meant as a compliment, for some reason, it stung.
“I need a favor.”