Man with the Muscle (5 page)

“I'll come with you.”

Audrey endured a half hour of kisses and handshakes before the ache from her constant smile got a welcome relief from Jeffrey Beecher, the assistant who worked for tonight's event planner, Clarice Darnell.

“Audrey?” Pushing his way through the dwindling crowd, he hurried from the back of the house to join her. The earbud he wore, and wire running down the back of his collar, made her assume the interruption was related to the party. “Audrey, do you have a moment?”

“Sure.” She worked the muscles on her face, trying to relax them. “Is there a problem?”

“Can't this wait, Beecher? And you're to address her as Miss Kline.”

She stiffened at the unwanted and unnecessary defense on her behalf. “Audrey's fine. What is it?”

He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This just came for you.”

“At this hour?” Audrey frowned and took the letter.

“Maybe it's another donation.”

“I don't think so,” said Jeffrey. Harper
harumphed
at her side while the hired help monopolized her attention.

“A courier delivered it to the service entrance—said to bring it to you immediately. I gave him a five-dollar tip.”

Jeffrey pushed up his narrow-framed glasses onto the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. That was when she realized he was waiting to be reimbursed.

Normally, Audrey would have given him the money herself, but with nothing on but gray silk and lace, and no cleavage to speak of, she had no purse or pockets or hiding place to stash any cash. She turned and rested her hand on Harper's sleeve, dredging up one more smile. “Do you mind?”

“Not for you.” Although Harper's enthusiasm faded as soon as he turned his attention away from her, he pulled out his wallet and took Jeffrey aside.

For a delivery that sounded so urgent, the envelope was curiously devoid of red flags or clues as to what the contents might be. A glance through the guests gathering in the foyer indicated an easy exit to the kitchen was out of the question. Staying here meant she'd have Harper looking over her shoulder. Audrey opted for the quickest route to uninterrupted quiet by following the next couple to depart out the front door.

The night air instantly whipped through her hair, giving her senses a reviving shock and raising goose bumps along her arms. There was a dampness to the December breeze, hinting that they'd have a dusting of snow by morning. Perhaps taking a moment to find a wrap for her bare shoulders would have been a smarter move. But she was out here now, the porch was deserted, and the only sounds of company came from the
music inside and the crunch of tires over bricks as the valet staff drove up with cars for guests waiting in the driveway below. Hunching her shoulders and shivering against the cold, Audrey moved beneath one of the brass lamps framing the entryway to study the envelope.

Jeffrey was right. It didn't look like any pledge card or personal note regarding tonight's scholarship benefit. There was just her name, typed and neatly centered, along with the address and the courier service logo. No return address, but that was probably included inside. Perhaps it was something from the defense attorney pertaining to Demetrius Smith's case, or a proof of some reporter's column about the pretrial buzz for the newspaper. Trading her society hat for her attorney persona, she opened the envelope and pulled out the enclosed letter to read it.

Her blood chilled.

Oh. My. God.

“You'll catch your death out here, ma'am.”

Audrey jumped a mile inside her skin at the voice in the shadows. As the letter floated to the ground, she spun around to locate the balding man in a dark utility uniform climbing the steps onto the porch. Instinctively, she backed against the house at his approach. He was between her and the door now, and he just kept coming.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she put up her hand. “Stop right there. Please.”

That he did what she commanded surprised her even further. With an apologetic nod, he stopped and retreated a step, giving her a chance to calm her nerves and focus in on the name badge pinned to his dark gray parking valet's jacket.

“Bud.” She called him by name, recognizing him now
as another employee of Clarice Darnell's event staff. “You startled me.”

“Sorry about that, ma'am.” Fear had given the dampness of the night a chance to sink beneath her skin and she was truly shivering now. “I just wondered if you'd forgotten your coat. I'd be happy to get it for you.”

“I'm fine.” Audrey rubbed her hands up and down her arms, completely aware that her words belied her actions. He could think her spoiled, an idiot or a liar—she didn't care. She just wanted him to leave. “I got overheated inside. The fresh air feels good.” She pulled away from the chilled moisture of the limestone facade, standing straight and tilting her chin, determined to take control of her emotions. “That'll be all.”

Bud, of the thinning brown hair and toothpick he rolled from side to side between his lips, stood beside the porch railing, staring—no, leisurely running his gaze from the goose bumps on her arms along her body right down to her polished toenails. Just when she thought the curious creep might never blink, he bent down and picked up the envelope and letter that had landed between them. “You dropped these.”

Audrey snatched the papers from his fingers and tucked them against her stomach. “Thank you.”

The tense seconds had stretched beyond uncomfortable when the front door opened beside her. Audrey nodded to the gray-haired couple who stepped outside before catching the door and giving Bud a succinct dismissal. “The Bishops will be needing their car.”

“Yes, ma'am. You be careful now. And stay warm.” After pushing the knot of his tie up to his collar, Bud took the ticket stub from Dr. Bishop and jogged down the steps onto the circular drive to retrieve their car.

Audrey's “Good night” was for anyone within listening range as she went inside and pushed the door shut behind her. “Audrey?”

“Not now, Harper.” She shrugged off the hand on her arm and marched straight up the carpeted grand staircase. At the top she turned and hurried all the way down the hallway to the circular tower where her bedroom suite and its adjoining office were located.

Even after pulling her dressing gown over her shoulders, she had a hard time feeling any warmer than she had outside. But this wasn't the time to worry about wintry temps or strange men who materialized from the shadows. She locked the bedroom door behind her, grabbed the tweezers from her manicure set to pick up the letter and envelope and went into her office.

Moving her purse from the office chair, Audrey sat and reached for the phone. She needed to call her boss, Dwight Powers, and tell him there'd been a new development in the Smith case. And then she needed to call KCPD.

But she was quickly on her feet again, pacing behind her desk while she punched in the numbers. When the D.A.'s home phone rang, she stopped and took a deep, calming breath. She'd better have her facts straight before she said anything.

Tucking the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear, Audrey flattened the letter on her cherry wood desk and read it again.

She hadn't been mistaken.

No law firm or newspaper logo.

No personal stationery stamp.

No return address.

No name.

Just a threat—as clear as it was anonymous.

“Come on, Dwight. Answer.” Her boss had become a family man with his marriage to his second wife and the children that came with that union. Either they'd gone to bed early or they were all out together for a family night. But with each ring of the telephone, the tension inside her wound tighter and tighter.

Who had sent that threat? Although it couldn't have come from Demetrius Smith himself, even kept in isolation from other prisoners, it wouldn't be impossible for a gang leader to get a message out to one of his lieutenants or followers on the outside.

Ring.

Had it truly been a courier delivery? Or had one of Smith's men disguised himself and come to her house? Gotten past security? Been that close to her staff and guests and father?

That close to her?

Was he watching her even now? Learning which bedroom was hers? Enjoying her shell-shocked reaction?

Ring. Ring.

Dwight Powers's voice mail clicked on and Audrey suddenly felt disconnected. Isolated. Alone.

“Suck it up, woman,” Audrey chided. She could not—
would not—leave a panicked, unprofessional message on her boss's phone.

And then she spotted the blue bandanna—washed and pressed and peeking out of her purse—waiting for a free moment for her to return it with a proper thank-you to its owner, Alex Taylor. She snatched it out of her bag and wrinkled it in her fist, hugging the soft swatch of cotton to her chest.

Alex Taylor's handkerchief had been a gift on one of the saddest nights of her life. His caring gesture—whether motivated by his personal stake in the Smith trial or something chivalrous his grandmother had taught him—had provided an unexpected anchor when she'd been buffeted by a storm of unwanted emotions.

Now she was holding on to it again, clinging to the strength and security it represented.

She wouldn't be scared off this case.

But she was scared.

 

S
O, ARROGANT, TOUGH-TALKING
Audrey Kline—with all her preaching about being her own woman and setting the world on fire—ran for cover, just like the others.

She could be spooked.

He smiled as he stood in the darkness near the Kline's front gate, watching the imposing rock mansion with its historic architecture and air of refined taste and wealth. He enjoyed being a part of that world. But it was the fear he'd sensed when she'd run into the house that gave him real pleasure tonight.

He exhaled the smoke from his lungs with a deep, satisfied sigh as the lights filtering from her upstairs windows drew his attention. For a moment, he saw her slight figure silhouetted against the interior lights
before she quickly moved away from the blinds—as if she knew he was out here—watching, wanting, relishing her distress.

He'd been right about her Achilles' heel. For one woman it had been about protecting her child. For the last one, he'd found it far too easy to prey upon her looks and her fear that once her beauty was gone, she'd have nothing but her money to offer to anyone who might care.

So he'd taken her beauty. He'd struck right at the heart of what terrified her most.

Now, he was free to toy with Audrey Kline. He knew what she wanted—independence, respect, professional success—and he knew how to take it from her.

He'd give her a chance to make things right. Perhaps the smile she'd given him tonight would prove more sincere than the others had been. Everyone deserved a chance.

But if she was playing him…

“I'm still here.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it out in the leaves beneath his shoe, turning his attention to the impatient summons on his cell phone. “Yes, I've made all the necessary arrangements,” he assured the simpleton who was paying to do his bidding. “I'll take care of everything.”

“Is it safe?”

How tedious. “Blowing up anything is never completely safe. But if you follow my directions to the letter and you position yourself where I instructed, then you won't be hurt and you'll have the perfect alibi.”

Just as he would.

“You're crazy, man. This better work or I'll be coming after you.”

Crazy? His hand curled into a fist down at his side. Although it wasn't the first time he'd heard that word, he'd long ago learned to let the offensive misconception slide off his back. The man on the phone was the real fool if he thought insults or threats could hurt him.

The telltale buzzer of the Klines' security system warned him that the front gate was sliding open and one of the guest's cars was approaching. Forcing his fingers to relax, he backed into the shadows of the ancient oaks that lined the circular drive and blocked him from view of the estate's security cameras.

An unexpected snap froze him into place. It took a therapeutic mantra through his clenched jaw for him to ignore the twig jabbing at his shoulder and retreat another step.

The smooth hum of a finely tuned engine—a Bentley, by the sound of it—passed by before he responded to the nagging insistence of his caller.

“Will it work? Will this freaking plan of yours work?”

He ran his fingers along the broken twig, counting the dry brown leaves that had withered with the change of seasons. “You handle my problem, and I'll take care of yours.”

He flipped the phone shut and slipped it into his slacks, pausing a moment before pulling out his pocket-knife.

In three strokes, he sawed away the fragmented wood and dropped it to the ground. With one more cut, he sliced off a leaf, leaving two on either side of the branch.

Something eased inside his brain at the symmetry of his handiwork, and he folded the knife and put it away.

Then he plucked his cigarette butt from the ground and stuffed it into his pocket. He straightened his jacket and tie and stepped onto the curving brick driveway, lengthening his stride as he headed to the house. The evening was winding down. It was time for him to get back to his duties before he was missed.

Winter was in the air. So was something Alex couldn't quite put his finger on.

The powdering of snow that had fallen through the night was still clinging to the grass in the park across the street. Christmas was only three weeks away, but with all the freaks and crazies lined up outside the courthouse that morning, it felt more like Halloween.

Alex handed his gun over to the security guards just inside the lobby of the steel, glass and granite building. He wasn't surprised to see the reporters with their camera crews here to cover the opening day of Demetrius Smith's trial. A car with four of what he guessed were Broadway Bad Boys like Smith was parked beyond the blocked-off street in front of the courthouse. The uniformed officers pulling up in a black-and-white just behind them would check out their IDs and tell the teens and young twenty-somethings to move on.

What Alex didn't expect to see were all the motherly types, religious groups and activists in the park across from the courthouse, with signs of both support and damnation for the proceedings going on inside the building. Some wore colorful coats and banners draped across their chests to draw attention to their cause, he
supposed. A few wore stocking masks to remain anonymous. The ghoul dressed up like the Grim Reaper was a little over-the-top, but the message was clear—an innocent child had fallen prey to gang violence, and the moms and grandmas and preachers and papas of Kansas City weren't going to stand for a scumbag like Demetrius Smith roaming their streets and terrorizing their families any longer.

The scar on his back where his Westside Warrior tat had once marked him burned with a mixture of suspicion and guilt. In his early teens, he'd been one of the thugs these people feared. He'd jacked a car once, had done his fair share of vandalism and had proved himself better than a kid should be in a fight. But with his birth mother providing a stellar example of drug abuse, he'd never used or sold the crap and he damn straight had never killed anyone—rival or innocent.

“Sixth floor,” the guard instructed, returning Alex's badge.

“Thanks.” Tucking the badge into the pocket of his jeans, Alex headed for the elevator. Those same street smarts that had kept him alive when he'd had no one at home to care about his next meal, much less his safety, hummed with an awareness of his surroundings. Something had him on edge. Something he'd seen walking in wasn't right.

Maybe it was just the beefed-up security around the building that made him hypersensitive to his surroundings. The guards monitoring the entrances and exits were routine. But when Alex got off the elevator, the extra uniforms positioned in the hallway and at the courtroom doors reinforced the sense that trouble was hiding someplace close by.

Had there been a threat? Usually, his team was put on notice, whether they were on the clock or not, if any warnings had been called in against the courthouse and its personnel, or if Homeland Security elevated its alert level. Since he was free to come watch the proceedings this afternoon, Alex had to assume that the extra security was simply a precaution with the highly publicized trial—a preemptive warning to dissuade any of those crazies or gangbangers from making a threat in the first place.

But that didn't keep him from wishing he still had his Glock on his belt as he shrugged out of his black leather jacket and showed his ID to the guard who let him in the courtroom's thick mahogany doors.

Once inside, Alex easily spotted Trip's wide shoulders and slipped into the aisle seat beside him.

“You're late, shrimp,” the big man whispered.

“Told you I was moving some furniture out of storage for my grandparents this morning. I offered to let you help.”

Trip grinned. “No, thanks. I thought somebody better keep an eye on Sarge today.”

“I can hear you talking.” Although Sergeant Delgado seemed to have taken Calvin Chambers's death especially hard, he wasn't above joining the sotto voce fray and putting his men in their places. “Shh.”

Obeying the command, Alex took a minute to identify all the players in the room. Judge Grover Shanks was an imposing figure at the bench. Audrey Kline—pure class in her navy-blue suit, with her auburn hair pinned at her nape—stood at the table several rows in front of Alex. She was in a heated debate with Cade Shipley, a defense attorney he recognized as much from
his press coverage as from Alex's few appearances in the courtroom. Shipley stood beside a seated black man wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit. Even from the back, there was no mistaking Demetrius Smith's shaved head, gold earring and bored slouch.

Alex's skin tingled with awareness. Smith looked more like a rap star at an awards show than the bleeding bastard they'd hauled out of his drug house in a black, skintight hoodie and handcuffs. Just one more thing that wasn't as it should be today.

Alex turned to Trip. “What's with all the uniforms in the building?”

“I'm not sure. Something's hinky, but I haven't heard anything official or seen anything out of place.”

Good. So he wasn't the only one bothered by that intangible air of lurking danger. “How's it going?”

Sergeant Delgado offered a surly whisper. “The D.A.'s office is gettin' their butt kicked. Kline made a great opening statement, but it's been downhill ever since.”

Alex leaned against the arm of his seat, giving himself a clear line of sight straight down the center aisle. The mention of butt kicking drew his focus to Audrey's sweet, round bottom.

Sucker.
Why couldn't his unguarded thoughts this past month be filled with a woman who wasn't quite so far out of his league?

But no, he had to notice. As icily untouchable as the rest of her might be, there was an earthy sway about that backside that was as distracting in sedate navy-blue wool today as it had been in hip-hugging jeans that night at the Cosgrove estate.

More than once, he'd wondered how she'd dealt with
the intrusion of all those reporters that night. How was she coping with her grief? Burying it the way he'd seen her lock down control over her fears and vulnerability when the cameras had started flashing? Had the tall blond suit who'd claimed ownership over her given her a shoulder to cry on? Steered her away from the two thugs who'd pretended to shoot her? Alex ignored the little twinges of jealousy and contempt, and smiled inside. Did she ever find a powder puff to help her mask her pink-tipped nose and the all-too-human evidence of emotion that had reddened her eyes and splotched her cheeks? She'd been so self-conscious about him seeing her like that. Okay, so he'd gone looking for the trespasser he'd heard and found a frightened, upset woman instead. She'd argued with him and he'd pressured her about this trial. Still, remembering her with her guard completely stripped away like that—clinging to his hand, holding on to him—felt…intimate.

Dutifully ignoring the appreciative heat licking through his veins, Alex lifted his gaze to the defiant tilt of her head and tuned in to a voice that was much sharper than the raw huskiness he remembered. “Your Honor, my esteemed colleague, Mr. Shipley, seems to think he has an open-and-shut case.”

“The burden of proof is on you, Miss Kline.” Shipley's voice was nothing short of patronizing as he turned his dark eyes on Audrey. “While my client admits to being on the scene of the standoff with KCPD's SWAT team and drug task force, he, in fact, was an innocent bystander who was also injured.”

Tanya Chambers's gasp echoed through the courtroom, drawing Alex's attention to the second row where she sat weeping, squeezing the arm of the older woman
beside her. That took a lot of gall to compare Smith's flesh wound to the bullets that had killed a ten-year-old boy. A buzz of commentary instantly erupted among the crowd. Alex heard everything from words of sympathy for the boy's mother to accusations of, “Innocent, my ass” and a “Shut it” that identified where two young men from Demetrius's Broadway Bad Boy posse were sitting.

“Quiet!” Judge Shanks rapped his gavel on his bench.

“This courtroom will be silent or it'll be empty. Do I make myself clear?”

As the comments quickly quieted, Audrey turned to give Tanya Chambers an apologetic smile. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips when those bright green eyes locked on Alex. Her pale cheeks flushed with color as he held her gaze. But before he could even offer a thumbs-up, she turned to face the judge again, quickly reaching into the briefcase on her chair and shoving something down inside.

That woman was a puzzle. Icy cool and smokin' hot. She wore her emotions on her skin yet denied feeling them with every tightly articulated word. “All I'm asking for is a short continuance to reinterview—”

“If Miss Kline's star witness is unable to testify—”

“The witness Mr. Shipley is referring to was found shot to death in his home this weekend, Your Honor.” Alex could imagine the accusatory glare she turned on Cade Shipley and the defendant at his table. “If your client knows anything about Trace Vaughn's murder—”

“Objection.” Demetrius shook his head while his lawyer defended the insinuation. “The prosecution is making a prejudicial statement about my client. Mr.
Vaughn was a known gang member. His unfortunate death is under investigation by KCPD, and no arrests have been made as of yet. Mr. Smith has been in a jail cell since his arrest, so he has an airtight alibi. He is not involved in that crime.”

The ribbing chatter from the two thugs in attendance was quickly silenced with a look from the judge and the approach of one of the uniformed guards. Well, son of a gun. Did those two boys look familiar?

Audrey continued to argue her point. “Demetrius Smith also has an affiliation with the Broadway Bad Boys—”

“If that were the case, he'd hardly promote the shooting of one of his own people.”

“He could order—”

Judge Shanks pounded his gavel. “The objection is sustained. Jurors will disregard any mention of the defendant's alleged knowledge of Vaughn's murder.” He turned from the twelve people in the box at the front of the room to point his gavel at Audrey. “If you can prove a connection between Mr. Vaughn's death and the proceedings at hand, I'll reconsider your motion for a delay, Miss Kline. Until then, do you have enough evidence to proceed with the prosecution?”

Was Smith grinning? Alex sat up straight in his seat. He couldn't read the bastard's expression from this angle, but there was no mistaking that Demetrius was looking straight across the aisle at Audrey, no doubt daring her to make good on her promise to put him away. What the hell? He curled his fingers into his palm, fighting the urge to wipe that smirk off his face. Couldn't the judge see that?

Audrey apparently did. Whatever message had been
silently communicated, she shrugged it off, tilted her chin to that arrogant angle and faced the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. The D.A.'s office is ready to continue with its case against Demetrius Smith.”

“Very well.” The judge tucked his papers into a folder and closed it before striking his gavel one last time.

“Court is recessed for this afternoon. We'll reconvene at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Bailiff, will you escort the jury out.”

“All rise.”

Alex stood with everyone else as the judge exited to his chambers and the jurors followed the bailiff through a door at the front of the room. With the sudden buzz of conversations and movement of people filing into the aisle, it was impossible to make out the exact words being exchanged up front. But Demetrius Smith was tall enough that Alex could see his focus on Audrey. And as two guards turned him and took him away, Alex saw the slight nod of his head out into the crowd. His two bros shouted something in return.

His body tensed and ready to spring, Alex stepped into the path of the two young gangbangers, reading their faces as they approached, trying to figure out what coded communication had just passed between them and Demetrius. Every gang had their own set of hidden signs, colors, words, symbols that could say anything from “I belong here” to “You're dead.” But there were a few messages that remained universal between gangs and generations of gang members—even when they went on to become cops.

Alex widened his stance, breathed in deeply and claimed the path leading to the exit. Both boys were
teens, maybe twenty. Both were taller, skinnier, than Alex. And both understood Alex's silent warning.

“What?” the first one said, stopping in his tracks, giving Alex his space. “You harassin' us, officer?”

So they did remember him chasing them away from the Gretchen Cosgrove murder scene.

“We ain't done nothin',” the second one said, pulling on a white ball cap before turning it to the side and tipping up the brim. “We's just here for a friend.”

“What did Demetrius say to you?”

“Nothin'.”

Alex wasn't playing games with these wise guys. “What did you say to him?”

If he stood there long enough, waited long enough, intimidated long enough, one of them would crack. The first one did. “We told D he was gonna get off.”

“Any particular reason you'd say that?”

“Cuz there's this guy—”

“Shut up.” The second teen took off his hat and whacked his buddy on the shoulder. So Hat Boy was the brains of the duo. He was smart enough to know when to cut and run, at least. “We ain't doin' nothin' wrong bein' here, officer.”

“You're the boys I chased off that murder scene in Mission Hills. You wouldn't be stalking Miss Kline, would you? Intimidating the opposing counsel is a crime, you know.”

The teen in the white cap put up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey. We's just here to support D. We ain't said nothin' to your lady friend. Are we free to go?”

With a nod, Alex stepped aside, knowing he wouldn't get anything else out of them now. “Be good,” he warned.

Hat Boy slapped his friend in the back of the head, reprimanding him on their way out the door. Alex watched White Hat turn to the right, away from the elevators, as he pulled on his jacket.