Protecting Plain Jane (6 page)

He bristled where he sat, the sweet aroma of his rare cigarette souring into a foul memory in his nose and lungs. He didn’t make mistakes.

His fingers curved around the earring and squeezed, its sharp edges cutting into his skin.

Normally, he preferred to put his hands on his victims, to feel them writhing with fear, to hear them begging for mercy. He opened his hand and forced himself to breathe deeply, recalling Charlotte’s screams of terror when he’d beat on the door. The erratic rhythm of his pulse evened out as he replayed her helpless gasp over the phone in his head. He turned from his hidden vantage point and watched her manic movements and pale expression as she dodged reporters and battled with cops and medical personnel amidst the glare of headlights and spotlights and television cameras. Seeing her weakness paraded on display in front of her family and the press strengthened his resolve, calmed him.

This was all going to plan. Charlotte Mayweather craved security, predictability—she needed to know and trust everything and everyone around her in order to function like a normal human being.

He’d take all that and more from her.

Feeling tonight’s victory coursing through his veins again, he tucked the earring into his pocket and started the engine. Power over those who had wronged him, control of his own destiny—those were heady things that restored the equilibrium inside his own head.

He pulled onto the street, driving two blocks before turning on his lights and heading across the city.

His thorough research into her kidnapping ordeal, and into the hellish trial that followed, had paid off. He was in her head now, exactly where he wanted to be.

Charlotte Mayweather didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Four

Trip downed the last of his beer in one long swallow and plunked the empty glass on the table. Of all the nights he’d been to the Shamrock Bar, celebrating successful missions with his team, commiserating over the rare loss of a hostage or saluting a fallen friend, he’d always been able to tune out the noise of too many conversations and television sets and concentrate on his friends. Or on a pretty face who didn’t mind a little flirtation. Or on one of the classic novels he’d been too frustrated to get through when the rest of his classmates had been reading them back in school.

Thank God for Classic Comics—or he might not have the high-school diploma he’d needed to get into the police academy eleven years ago.

He rolled an imaginary crick from his neck and turned his attention back to the paperback he was reading at the corner table. It might take him all year long, but he was determined to get through the entire
Lord of the Rings
trilogy.

Only, Ents and elves and the scramble of letters he called Mordor kept getting sidetracked by sword-wielding women with pesky dogs and curvy hips and expressive eyes that shouldn’t be hidden away behind a pair of glasses.

He turned his page toward the light hanging on the wall beside him and tried to focus.
The qeaçous
…no,
beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid
.

But Trip’s thoughts weren’t in Middle Earth.

The swirling lights and sirens meant backup had arrived. They meant somebody else was here to convince her that he was one of the good guys. “They’re here to help.”

“Like you did?”

Trip’s gaze drifted to the blank margin at the bottom of the page. Where did Charlotte Mayweather get off, all but accusing him of making a horrible night even worse for her? He’d volunteered on his own time to check on the friend of a friend in need. The dead body and forced lock he’d found had put him on full-alert-combat mode. The woman was safe with him there. She didn’t need to be afraid or cry or go psycho on him.

She just needed to believe that he’d protect her—at any cost—because that was his job. It was who he was. It was what six feet, five inches of brawn, resourceful instincts and a talented set of hands was best suited for. He’d told her as much—had shown her—but she still didn’t believe he was one of the good guys.

And then she’d cried on him? The stitches in his arm and threat of a killer on the loose he could handle. But those tears trickling over her cheeks had twisted his stomach into a knot and made him useless to her.

And why was that stunned feeling of incompetence the memory that niggled his conscience two nights after the fact? Why wasn’t he analyzing the syrupy heat that had stirred in his veins when she’d halfway smiled at him for answering her tomboy whistle and plopping the dog in her lap?

Why was anything at all about Charlotte Mayweather still stuck in his head?

Trip closed his book and reached for his empty glass, tuning in to the other people in the bar. Captain Cutler sat at the end of the table, reading over the report from their performance-evaluation drill this afternoon. Alex Taylor sat directly across from him, on the phone with Audrey. Rafe Delgado was up at the bar, leaning in to stand nose-to-nose with their favorite bartender and adopted little sister, Josie Nichols.

Whatever that hushed argument was about, Josie was standing her ground, flipping her long dark ponytail behind her back and tilting her chin, despite the fatigue that was evident in her posture. For half a moment, Trip considered poking his nose in and warning Sergeant Delgado to back it up a step. Couldn’t he see how she braced her hands at the small of her back? The woman was dead on her feet, attending nursing school by day and working long hours at her uncle’s bar at night. She didn’t need whatever grief Rafe was giving her right now. But then Trip’s rescuing skills seemed to be a little on the fritz right now.

Still, Rafe seemed to be taking his overprotective-big-brother thing with Josie a little too far. Since she was the daughter of his first partner, who’d been killed in the line of duty, there was probably a stronger connection there. But it turned out there was no need to intervene. Josie flattened her hand in the middle of the sergeant’s chest and pushed him out of her space before spinning around and returning to her duties behind the bar.

Seemed like Charlotte Mayweather wasn’t the only woman who didn’t want SWAT Team One looking out for her.

“Here we go.” Randy Murdock, the newest member of the team, was driven and talented and female.
Miranda,
a feminine name that didn’t seem to fit either her personality or her deadly aim with a Remington sniper rifle, set a tray of beers on the table. The unwritten law was that the new guy bought the second round of drinks, since Josie Nichols seemed to always find an excuse to serve their first drinks on the house. “Everyone wanted a draft, right?”

“Works for me.” Trip reached across the table and picked up his second beer. He wouldn’t resort to getting drunk to get his frustration with a certain toffee-haired heiress out of his system, but getting his hands busy with something else might. “Thanks, newbie.”

Randy slid into the chair beside Trip’s, pulling a beer in front of her, too. “I don’t want you guys to think that just because I’m the only woman on the team that I’m going to be serving the drinks all the time. And don’t expect me to bake brownies or darn your socks.”

“Don’t expect me to darn yours, either,” Trip teased, appreciating the normal interaction with a woman.

“You can sew?” she countered.

“You can cook?”

The blonde’s cheeks blossomed with a blush that she quickly hid behind a swig of her beer.

“Down, you two.” Captain Cutler chided them like a stern father, setting the report down on the table and picking up a glass. His dark blue eyes zeroed in on Randy. “As long as you keep making a perfect score on the target range, you don’t have to bring me another beer.”

“I don’t mind doing that for you, sir.”

Michael Cutler grinned. “Relax, Murdock—I’m paying you a compliment. Team One’s score today was the highest ever recorded on the course. Captain Sanchez on Team Two owes me twenty bucks. And I intend to collect.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Congratulations to my team.” Cutler raised his glass and signaled to Sergeant Delgado to come over to the table and join their toast. “Now, you all perform that well on the street, and I can rest easy when I go home to my wife at night.”

Trip raised his glass and took a drink to honor his team’s performance on the mock-terrorist-attack drill this afternoon. Even during those lucky stretches of time when there was no real bomb threat or fugitive alert or hostage crisis that needed SWAT on the scene, they trained in weapons and strategy to keep their skills and instincts sharp. Today’s drill had gone by the book—full cooperation, each playing to his or her strength, no mistakes.

So why couldn’t he be savoring that victory instead of stewing over some eccentric kook…?

Trip’s gaze skidded to the neat shock of red hair on the man walking through the Shamrock’s front door. One thing about hanging out at a cop bar was that eventually, almost every cop in KCPD, active or retired, would stop by. Even the ones he didn’t particularly like. Trip barely knew Spencer Montgomery, but something about a detective relentlessly badgering a witness in an ambulance when it was plain to anybody who looked that she was about to lose it, put him on Trip’s don’t-turn-your-back-on-him-yet list.

Detective Montgomery must have felt Trip’s eyes on him because he paused before sitting and turned, trading nods of acknowledgment, if no smile of kinship, with him. Montgomery and his dark-haired partner had been assigned to the Rich Girl Killer investigation. A serial killer had already tortured and strangled two of Kansas City’s wealthiest beauties and was believed to be responsible for one or two more unsolved deaths. Just last year the killer had targeted Alex’s fiancée, but the perp had eluded identification and gone underground. Did Montgomery think there was some kind of connection between the dead chauffeur and the murderer he was after?

Trip sat up straight in his chair.

Was
that
the killer Charlotte Mayweather feared?

The man she’d thought
he
was?

Maybe the prickly heiress’s paranoia wasn’t all about the trauma of being kidnapped ten years ago.

“All right, sweetheart, I’ll see what I can do. You will
not
. You will not.” Alex’s voice interrupted Trip’s silent speculation. “If that’s the case, it’s not up for negotiation. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll swing by to pick you up.”

“Problems with the soon-to-be missus?” Trip felt he’d better make a comment before anyone noticed his unusual preoccupation with his thoughts tonight.

“Just a little discussion about taking unnecessary risks.” Alex closed his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “We reached a compromise.”

“She’ll go ahead and do what she wants and you won’t complain about it?”

“Ha-ha, big guy. I wouldn’t be giving me too much grief. You’ve been all kinds of quiet since that night at the Mayweather Museum.” So his brooding hadn’t gone unnoticed. “On the other hand, whatever you said or did, Charlotte’s still talking about it. Audrey’s at her house right now.”

“Is she filing a harassment claim with the D.A.’s office?”

“Not exactly.”

“What
exactly
is she saying about me?”

Captain Cutler put an end to the conversation. “What is this, junior high? You two settle your love lives on your own time. I just won a bet.”

“Congratulations, captain,” Alex took a drink and then pushed his glass away. “Sorry to cut the celebration short, but, since we have the next couple of days off, I’ve got a favor to ask.” The others stopped their joking and drinking long enough to listen in. “Well, Audrey’s the one making the request, but—”

“What does the counselor need?” Sergeant Delgado asked. As moody as he’d been lately, he had a soft spot for Audrey Kline, the assistant district attorney who’d put away the murderer of a little boy who’d died in Delgado’s arms back in November. They all owed Audrey a favor for that conviction.

“She’s looking for some extra security to keep an eye on the guests at Richard Eames’s funeral tomorrow. I guess he’d been with the Mayweather family so long that they’re all attending the service and hosting a reception afterward at the estate.”

“They’re
all
attending?” Trip was still pondering what accusations, or unlikely compliments, Charlotte had to say about him. She’d made it clear that she had a phobia about people, about strangers—about big, scary men like him, especially. He couldn’t see her standing with a crowd of mourners around a grave site, or welcoming them into her home.

“Charlotte said Richard Eames was like an uncle to her. They’re going to find a way to sneak her in to the graveside service,” Alex explained. “But they’re worried about paparazzi and curious fans. Anything about the Mayweathers is usually newsworthy, but if word gets out that Charlotte is finally making a public appearance after all these years, it might bring the crazies out. They’d like to keep their mourning as private as possible, of course.”

“They’re about the wealthiest family in Kansas City,” Randy pointed out. “Don’t they have their own security?”

Alex nodded. “Gallagher Security Systems—the same private outfit that protects the estate where Audrey’s father lives. They’ll provide extra guards at the house, in addition to all the electronics Gallagher designed. But they’re more gadgets than manpower—they don’t have the resources to secure a cemetery the size of Mt. Washington as well.”

Rafe Delgado leaned back in his seat, a frown settling back on his expression. “Didn’t Gallagher provide the security at the estate where Gretchen Cosgrove was murdered, too?”

Randy picked up on his suspicion. “That’s not a very good recommendation for Gallagher’s company.”

“Gallagher’s wife was the Rich Girl Killer’s first victim,” Captain Cutler reminded them.

“If his company had access to all the crime scenes, maybe the second murder and other attempts are a cover for his wife’s death.” Randy wasn’t getting the hint stamped on Cutler’s unsmiling face. “Has anyone investigated him?”

The captain cleared his throat and simply looked at her.

Randy wilted in her chair. “Too soon in our relationship to speculate about something like that, hmm?”

“Quinn Gallagher is a friend of mine,” Cutler explained. “Any connection between his company and the murders is a cruel coincidence. Or a plot to discredit him.”

Trip’s gaze instinctively shifted across the room to the table where Spencer Montgomery and his partner were sipping drinks. Son of a gun. The red-haired detective was looking over the rim of his glass, meeting Trip’s gaze—as if he knew the conversation around SWAT Team One’s table centered on his investigation.

The detective didn’t so much as blink before turning back to his partner. A guy that unflappable would have no qualms about exploiting Charlotte Mayweather’s grief if it meant solving his case.

Uh-uh. He had the stitches in his arm to prove
he
was the man Charlotte could count on if there was any other threat to her person or sanity—from killer or cop alike. Whether she believed it or not.

Trip pulled back to answer Alex. “I’ll volunteer.”

The mood around the table grew sober. They were all shifting back into wary-protector mode.

“Jackson Mayweather is looking for some off-duty officers to help with crowd control, in exchange for a generous donation to KCPD’s widows and orphans fund.”

“Whatever the Mayweathers need. I’m there.”

“Thanks, Trip.”

Captain Cutler was nodding, pushing away from the table and standing. “Call or text us with the times and setup. We can coordinate our efforts once we’re on-site. And remember, protecting the Mayweathers is strictly voluntary.”

“I’ll be there,” Trip repeated, rising.

Alex stood, too. “Audrey will be there all day, so that means I will, too.”