One Wrong Step (7 page)

Celie stepped into the unit. “I haven’t been here in months.”

John followed so he could take a look inside. The space smelled musty. When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw a splintered chair turned on its side and the remnants of what had once been a comforter, but was now merely a heap of feathers and shredded fabric. Toward the back of the space, he saw some dining room furniture, a baby crib, and some cardboard boxes labeled books and china. The boxes had been ripped open, and the cement floor was littered with paperbacks and shards of white porcelain.

“Wow.” Celie knelt and picked up a broken teacup.

“We’d like you to go through everything,” the officer said. “Make a list of what’s damaged or missing.”

“Has anyone checked the security tapes?” John asked. He’d noticed cameras mounted by the gate. Maybe they could get some vehicle tags, or, hell, even a shot of the perpetrators. John made a mental note to buddy up with the bald kid on his way out.

“We’ll go over those,” the cop said.

John glanced at the padlock dangling from the metal door of the unit. It looked as though someone had used a key to open it.

“Where do you keep the key to this padlock, ma’am?” the officer asked, voicing the question in John’s head.

“I’ve got one in my dresser and one on my key chain.” Panic spread across Celie’s face as she said it.

“Where’s your key chain, Celie?”

She glanced at John. “I lost it.” Then she looked at the officer. “Right along with my purse, just Friday night. Whoever found my purse and keys must have found my Public Storage card.”

John watched her lie to the officer, who of course bought everything she said. Who wouldn’t? She looked like a freaking Sunday school teacher in that flowery dress with the little buttons up the front.

“Would you mind helping me move this box, Officer?” she asked. “I want to see if the rest of my china’s still intact.”

John watched as she deftly diverted the cop’s attention. Why didn’t she just tell him what was going on?

Maybe she didn’t want to make things more complicated by involving the local police. Or maybe she was hiding something, something she didn’t want to talk about with cops or anyone.

Including him.

John stepped out of the unit, wishing for a cigarette. He heard sandals snapping against the concrete as Celie poked around, taking inventory of her stuff.

“Well,” she said finally, “nothing’s missing that I can tell. It’s just a big mess. Why don’t you give me the paperwork to take home, and I’ll return it later when I come back to clean this up? I don’t really have time to do this right now.”

The manager looked concerned. “Are you sure? I’ve got a push broom in the office. I’d be happy to help you.”

“No, don’t bother.” Celie smiled and ushered everyone out of the unit. “I’ll take care of it later.”

She pulled down the metal door and fastened the padlock. Then she collected the paperwork from the manager, all the while chatting pleasantly. John watched her, wondering if she fully realized what it meant that someone had her keys. And he’d left her alone in her apartment last night. The place wasn’t safe. She needed her locks changed, soon, and she definitely needed to give her security guards a heads-up.

Hell, what she needed to do was vacate her place altogether. She could stay with him.

J
ohn had figured out years ago the most important part of being a reporter was listening, plain and simple. Most times, if you just gave a person the right prompt, they’d start telling you their story. John was the king of going back again and again until his source got comfortable with the idea of talking. Almost always, his persistence paid off. Most people
liked
to talk, whether because they had a guilty conscience or they wanted to feel important or sometimes just because they were lonely. The key was to wait them out and then be there when they finally decided to spill.

Celie was no different. And John intended to wait her out, just like he would a news source.

She’d been a source for him before, both during the rape trial and then again in Mayfield when he was covering the Josh Garland scandal. John had never actually met Celie during the rape trial, though. Back then he’d been a lowly intern, so his job had consisted of sitting in the courtroom and taking notes for the veteran courts reporter.

He hadn’t met Celie, but he’d sure as hell watched her. She’d been riveting up there on the witness stand. He’d never seen anyone so brave. And he’d been harboring something like awe for her ever since.

Meanwhile, she hadn’t even known he existed. They didn’t meet until years later in Mayfield, just after Feenie dropped the Josh Garland story in his lap. Garland had been Feenie’s husband before she figured out he was running around on her and gave him the boot. When Garland wasn’t busy committing adultery, he’d been using some family businesses to launder money for the Saledo cartel. Feenie uncovered his operation, setting in motion a chain of events that eventually led to Feenie’s near-murder, Robert Strickland’s implication in the money-laundering scheme
and
the murder attempt, and eventually Robert and Celie’s divorce. John had covered the entire saga for the
Mayfield Gazette
, his hometown paper. He’d won numerous awards for the series, including a national journalism prize that had garnered him the respect of his editors and the job in Austin.

Which had brought him back to Celie.

John had spent the past ten minutes sitting on a bar stool in her apartment pretending to be absorbed in a decorating magazine—did she actually read this shit?—while he did what he did best.

Which was listening.

“You told me my keys were sent to a
crime lab,
when actually, they were in possession of a suspected murderer.” Celie told Special Agent Stevenski for the third time. The guy had been waiting in the lobby when she and John had returned from the storage place.

“Again, I apologize for the oversight,” he said meekly.

“It might be just an ‘oversight’ to you, but to me it’s much more than that. I take my personal safety very seriously.”

“I understand.”

“What if it were your mother or your sister? Would you have been this sloppy concerning the whereabouts of
her
house keys?”

“Ma’am, I really do apologize.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s get this over with. You said you had some questions for me? I really don’t know what else I can tell you besides what we’ve already talked about.”

McAllister heard Stevenski shuffling through his notepad. She had him flustered, apparently.

“Uh, so there seems to be a gap between the time you say he left here and the time of the accident. About an hour, we think. Are you
sure
he left at ten?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re certain he wasn’t meeting anyone nearby?”

“I’m not certain at all. But if he was, he didn’t tell me about it.”

“And you’re sure you only gave him twenty dollars? Even though he asked for several thousand?”

He’d hit her up for several
thousand
dollars? What a dickhead.

“That’s right,” she said. “That’s all I had in the house.”

“Do you have a habit of keeping large amounts of cash at home? Say, more than a hundred dollars?”

“No.” Her voice had become wary now.

“See, here’s the thing. For him to even ask that seems pretty unusual. I mean, most people are like you. They don’t keep big sums of cash lying around. So I’m wondering why Mr. Strickland even thought to ask.”

Silence.

“Ms. Wells?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you remember, back while you were married to Mr. Strickland, being in the habit of having large sums of money around?”

“No.”

“Do you know if your ex-husband might have kept money hidden anywhere?”

“I’ve been through all this before, with Agent Rowe. When Robert and I were married, I knew next to nothing about our finances. He was an accountant, for heaven’s sake! It seemed perfectly logical to me that he wanted to be in charge of all our money stuff. I was
not
involved with any of his illegal activities!”

“Over the past ten months, has Mr. Strickland ever asked you to give him money?”

“No.”

“Not even a loan? Maybe a small wire transfer?”

“No.”

“If he had, would you have given him one?”

Stevenski wouldn’t let it go. He evidently believed Celie had been funneling Strickland money while he was a fugitive.

“No,” Celie said firmly. “I’m sure you remember that he cleaned out our bank account before he left. I wasn’t feeling very generous toward him after that.”

Another pause while Stevenski shuffled papers.

“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s it for now. I’ll call you if anything else comes up.”

From the corner of his eye, John watched her walk him to the door. The agent gave Celie a big smile, and John got another one of his brief nods.

“
Adios,
” John said, waving.

Celie closed the door and turned around. John got up from the stool and walked over to her. She looked tired, and he wanted to rub her shoulders, but the look on her face told him that might not go over well.

“He doesn’t realize you’re a reporter. All that’s off the record.”

John shrugged. “I’m not writing about this, so it doesn’t matter.”

Celie watched him, and he could tell she was debating whether to trust him.

“Someone’s probably writing about it, though, right? Someone at the
Herald
?”

“Probably,” he admitted. “Depends how much the homicide has to do with something bigger. Like the Saledo cartel.”

Celie looked away.

“Do
you
think Robert was murdered by someone working for Saledo? Maybe over an unpaid debt?”

It was a gamble, asking her point-blank like that. But he got the sense she was ready to open up.

“I have no idea.”

Or maybe not. Shit, maybe she needed more time.

“Celie, look. I’ve been thinking. You obviously can’t stay here tonight, so—”

Someone knocked on the door. She checked the peephole and immediately pulled it open. “Hi! I was just about to call you.”

A stocky guy walked in wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been ironed. He slipped off his sunglasses and kissed Celie’s cheek. “Hey, beautiful.”

John’s defenses went up until he noticed the guy’s eyes. Brown. Friendly. And definitely giving him the once-over.

“And who do we have here?” her friend asked, tilting his head John’s way.

“Dax Gillespie, meet John McAllister,” Celie said. “John’s a friend from home.”

Friend. Great. Only five o’clock, and already he had a strike for the evening.

“Dax is my neighbor,” Celie explained. “He lives just down the hall.”

John shook hands with Dax, taking the opportunity to slide an arm around Celie’s waist. “Good to meet you. I was just asking Celie to come get some dinner with me. Can you join us?”

Dax’s eyes twinkled. “I’d love to, but I’ve already got plans.” He grinned at Celie, like they were sharing some sort of inside joke. “You two enjoy.”

Celie stepped away from John’s arm. “Sorry, but I can’t do it either. I’ve got some reading to do tonight for one of my classes.”

Strike two.

“Hey, Dax,” she said, “I need a favor.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

John was pretty sure he knew what the favor was.

“Can I sleep on your sofa?” Yep. “Just for tonight? I’ve got to get a locksmith up here tomorrow, and until I do, I don’t really want to be here.”

Dax looked from Celie to John and back to Celie again. “Sure, no problem.”

Strike three. Just like that, he was out.

Celie stuffed clothes into her overnight bag and darted her gaze around the room. Someone had been here. She could feel it. She wasn’t sure what had tipped her off, but someone had definitely been in her apartment. Her hands felt clammy as she zipped the bag.

“May I say, just once, that you’ve lost your
mind
?”

Dax stood next to her closet. She scooted him aside so she could grab her Nikes off the floor. Not that she intended to exercise, but it looked like she’d be stuck taking the bus to campus tomorrow morning, and her classes were a good hike from the bus stop.

“Are you listening? Mr. McConaughey just asked you out!”

She glanced at Dax, who looked horrified by her apparent lapse in judgment.

“He didn’t want to take me out,” she said.

Dax crossed his arms. “Hmm, as a matter of fact, I
did
just hear him. And he
did
ask you out to dinner.”

Celie rolled her eyes. “He didn’t want to take me
out
out. He wanted to take me home. So he could talk me into sleeping with him.”

Where had she put her prescription? She was almost guaranteed to get a migraine tonight. It was probably in the bathroom.

She glanced at Dax, who was staring at her like she was nuts.

“What’s wrong with
that
?” he demanded. “The man is gorgeous. And
nice,
I might add. Not a homophobic vibe for miles. And yet totally, 100 percent manly man. His confidence level is off the charts.”

“That’s his ego.”

“And you know him from home,” Dax plunged on, undeterred, “so he automatically passes the crazy-psycho background check. And he’s totally into you.”

Celie brushed past him and went into the bathroom for her pills. As she walked through the door, the smell of nail polish nearly knocked her over.

“Oh, my God.”

Dax leaned against the door frame. “What?”

“Someone’s been here.” She stared at the traces of L’Oréal Gypsy Rose in the grout between the floor tiles.

“They were
here.
See?” She pointed at the floor.

“Who was here?”

Celie felt woozy. She had to sit down. She flipped shut the toilet lid and sank down onto it. She buried her head in her hands. This was so out of control. What was she going to do?

“Are you okay?” Dax picked up her wrist and started taking her pulse. “Here, put your head between you knees.”

Celie did. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the nail polish on her floor grout. She was so, so dead.

“Do you need an Imitrex?”

“No.” She sat up and tried to smile. “I’m fine, really. Sorry. I just…” What could she say? She didn’t want Dax involved. “I had a roach yesterday and I asked the building to send the exterminator up. I think he broke a bottle of nail polish in here, and the fumes are getting to me.”

Dax looked around. “Well, somebody definitely broke something. They should have left you a note.”

Celie stood up. Her gaze landed on the medicine bottle sitting beside her toothbrush. She grabbed both off the counter and strode out of the bathroom.

“Almost ready!” Her voice was surprisingly chipper considering she could hardly breathe.

Oh God. Oh Lord. What was she going to
do
?

Rowe looked up from his laptop as Stevenski walked into the break room Monday morning. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he told his partner.

“What?” Stevenski refilled his Styrofoam cup with coffee and walked over.

As of Saturday, Rowe and Stevenski had been working out of the Bureau’s satellite office in Austin. It wasn’t nearly as big as the field office in San Antonio, which was why Rowe’s laptop and files currently occupied the better part of a table in the lunch room.

“Here, take a look.” Rowe pivoted his computer so Stevenski could read the e-mail he’d just received.

A DEA agent in Mexico who was part of the task force had sent Rowe a transcript of a recent phone conversation he’d recorded. Saledo and his operatives were constantly switching landlines and cell phones to throw off investigators, but every now and then the surveillance guys caught a break.

“Whoa,” Stevesnki said. “Where’d we get this?”

“Mexico. Zapata’s crew just sent it over. I think they recorded it last night.” Rowe scanned the e-mail again. “Yeah, the call came in about ten-thirteen. They traced it back to a San Antonio pay phone.”

“You listen to the tape?” Stevenski asked.

“Nope. Caller was Spanish-speaking. Male. Zapata translated it for us and typed this up.”

The call had lasted only about three minutes, but it had revealed some crucial information. One, a couple of guys had taken out Robert Strickland, and two, they seemed to be looking for something that belonged to Saledo, but they hadn’t found it yet and neither had the cops.

The most startling part of the call was Saledo’s reaction to this news.

Surprise. Followed by outrage that someone was stealing from him.

Meaning whoever murdered Strickland hadn’t done so on Saledo’s orders. The killers were working for somebody else, someone who knew Strickland had “something” that belonged to Saledo.

“Damn, this is big,” Stevenski said. “It confirms your informant theory.”

Rowe nodded, feeling both vindicated and unsettled at the same time.

He
knew
he’d been right about a mole. Over the past three years nearly every sting operation the task force had undertaken had turned into a disaster. Three federal agents had lost their lives trying to bust Saledo. Many people at the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Bureau were convinced someone on the inside was feeding tips to Saledo and his network. Personally, Rowe believed it was someone on one of the local police forces who was supposedly “helping” with operations. Several years ago, an FBI agent had been planted on the San Antonio police force to try and root out the mole, but he and his SAPD partner, Paloma Juarez, had been killed by people with ties to Saledo.