Secrets of the Dead (4 page)

“Hopefully you’re right.”

He hoped he was, too. They’d maintained high visibility, coming and going from the apartment that was only a precarious step above a dive. Browsing in markets, loitering in parks, and spending several eye-bleeding hours in museums, he’d tried to keep them accessible. Raiker’s contacts had made certain that the information about their story was spreading on the street. But he hadn’t seen a sign that anyone gave a damn about it.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen some questionable strangers in the neighborhood they were residing in. It was the fact that
all
the residents there seemed questionable.

She picked up a menu tucked behind the napkin holder.

“What are you doing?”

Her expression was artful. “We’re not ordering dessert?”

He stared to make sure she wasn’t messing with him. “We’re not. Because I don’t want to have to roll you down the sidewalk when we leave.”

Snapping the menu shut, she replaced it. “You’re right. We can always stop at a street vendor and get a pretzel later this afternoon.” He knew she would, too, despite the bone chilling December temperatures. Declan was beginning to think that Eve’s gift of languages was secondary to her staggering metabolism. Not that he could see the effect of the calories. They seemed to be consumed in a vacuum.

Sliding carefully out of the cracked vinyl seat, she shrugged into her thigh length bright red wool coat and pulled black gloves from her pocket that matched her leather boots. He got up and shrugged into his own coat before accompanying her to the register. It was second nature to maneuver his body to keep her between him and the counter as he glanced at the street outside the diner. The occasional car. Passersby. The neighborhood was seedy but fairly quiet each day until mid-afternoon.

Turning back toward the clerk, he paid the bill and they walked out into the sharp wind. Fall had surrendered early this year, crumpling in the face of an unseasonably early arctic blast of air that had gripped the city in its icy fist a couple of weeks ago and had only sporadically loosened since. The only comfort was that there had been no measurable snowfall yet. The apartment they were staying in had a love-hate relationship with heat, which meant they were either stifling or shivering with no in between.

They turned right out of the restaurant and moved in a silent orchestrated dance they’d developed. Declan was between Eve and the curb, keeping a watchful gaze on the occupants of the sidewalk heading toward them and the street. That awareness had him whispering in an undertone, “Black sedan parked on my left. Two car lengths ahead of us.”

She didn’t visibly react, maybe because he’d issued too many similar warnings in the past. Like every time he saw more than one individual heading toward them, or a parked car with two or more occupants. But they’d only gone a few more steps when the front passenger door opened and a tall dark haired man exited to open the back door of the vehicle.

He felt Eve tense beside him.

“Gallagher.” The stranger was an inch or so shorter than Declan’s six feet, dark haired with pockmarked skin partially covered by a dark beard.

“Don’t know ’em.” He nudged Eve toward the right to angle around the man. The stranger straightened to take one long stride onto the walk, his hand slipping into his open coat. With a quick flip, open-close, he flashed the gun in his hand where he held it inside the jacket. “We take a ride.” His voice was heavily accented, but his English was understandable.

Declan slowed to a stop. “To where?”

As an answer the man grasped his arm and shoved him against the car, doing a quick one-handed frisk of his body, coming away with the weapon kept in a shoulder harness beneath his ski jacket. The guy jammed it into his own waistband and straightened, turning toward Eve. Even as he reached for her she gave a scream that could shatter windows.

“Pohiti!”
This from the driver.

Keeping his weapon trained on them, their accoster replied,
“Najprej se moram…”

“Zdaj!”

Seeming to have lost the verbal battle, the stranger sent a look up and down the street and gestured with the gun. “Get in.” When Declan made no move to obey, the man swung the weapon toward Eve. “I shoot her now. Get in.”

She’d gone silent, her eyes huge in a face that had paled. Declan jerked his head. “In the car.” She obeyed immediately, shrinking away from the man holding the weapon to slide across the seat. Declan followed her.

“Give me purse.”

Declan hesitated, but Eve shoved her bag at the man. He slammed the car door and got in the front seat.

“Where are you taking us?”

There was no answer and despite the adrenaline spiking in his veins, he was content to watch the passing streets. Eve’s scream hadn’t summoned help, which was unsurprising, given the area of town. But after a few blocks they entered a neighborhood that was even more unsavory. He watched for landmarks, mentally noting street signs. At least those still standing.

“Tha sgian nam brog.”
Eve whimpered the words in Scottish Gaelic. It took everything he had to avoid a double take.

Learning that she had a knife in her boot instantly re-shifted the odds in their favor. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly in English. “I’ve got this. Just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

The man with the gun turned more fully in his seat to look at them. “Shut up.”

“She’s scared. Tell us what the hell is going on.”

“Later. No more talk.” He wagged the weapon threateningly, and Declan showed his palms.

“Okay. Fine.”

Eve raised her knees chest level and clutched them with her arms, burying her face against them. The man in front eyed them suspiciously. Declan looked out the window, everything inside him coiled tight.

“Posrkbel bom za žensko.”

The gunman glanced at the driver for a moment.
“Pogumni mož.”

The exchange provided the opening Declan had been waiting for. But as quickly as he struck, Eve was quicker. Her movements a blur, she straightened, knife in hand and was on the edge of her seat with the blade against the side of the driver’s neck even as Declan clamped his fingers around the gunman’s wrist. The man tried to jerk away violently, to no avail.

“Easy there, dobber, unless you want to see your buddy shanked. Give me the weapon.”

The gunman stilled, his gaze settling on the knife. Eve exerted enough pressure that a thin line of blood welled above the blade. The driver shouted.
“Daj mu pištolo!”

But it took another moment before the other man loosened his grip. Declan took the weapon and turned it on him. “Now I want mine back. Two fingers. Slow and easy. I’d hate to blow your head off because you got stupid.”

Jaw clenched, the passenger did as he was told. Declan retrieved it with his free hand. “Now the purse.” The man handed it back, tossing it next to Eve on the seat. “Good lad. Here’s a message to take back to whoever sent you. Are you listening? Nod if you are.” The man in front of him gave a jerk of his head. “The next time I see you you’re a dead man. Got it?” Another nod. “I figure you’re working for someone else, because you lack the brains and finesse for it to be otherwise. And I don’t deal with lackeys. Now tell your buddy to pull over.”

“Ustavi avto.”

The driver eased the vehicle toward a curb. “Open the locks.” A click signified the man had obeyed. “When we get out of the car, you have two seconds to get gone before I start shooting.” Only then did Eve withdraw the blade from the driver’s throat, leaning back to grab her purse before opening the door handle with her free hand. Simultaneously they burst from the car, both bolting toward its rear. Declan raised both guns, but the driver wasted no time. With a screech of tires the sedan barreled away.

Chapter 3

“Shithole, sweet shithole.”
Declan closed and locked the apartment door behind them. The original had been replaced prior to their arrival with a steel model, complete with matching frame and reinforced surrounding plaster. The likelihood of someone breaking through the door was slim, although Eve wasn’t sure what would stop a determined burglar from moving down the hallway and simply kicking a hole through the crumbling plaster wall. The visual image of someone performing the act wasn’t difficult to summon given the image branded on her mind from the scene earlier.

“Dirty Harry.” And there was, Eve thought, no Scottish translation for the Clint Eastwood character Declan had brought to mind, standing in the street, feet splayed, a weapon in each hand. “Would you really have made their day?”

Ignoring that, he locked the door behind them and turned to look at her speculatively. “You made my day when you blurted out that you had a knife in your boot. Which leads to the question of why.”

“The answer seems self-explanatory, given the circumstances.” Eve slipped out of her coat and shoved her gloves in its pockets before crossing to the postage stamp closet to hang it up. “We went over it often enough. Both of us would be armed at all times. You were quite adamant about that.”

“Yes. I figured you had your gun in your purse. That you’d screamed to avoid being frisked.”

“I was trying to avoid a frisk. But guns aren’t my first choice of weapon.” She turned then, cocked a brow at him. “If I had been searched, there’s a better chance they would have missed the knife than a gun.”

His expression was bemused. “You’re probably right. I’m not sure if I was more surprised that you were carrying a hidden knife or that you seemed so adept with it.”

Her mouth twisted wryly. “It’s always a mistake to underestimate people.” Their attempted abductors had made that error with her. She wasn’t so certain that Declan hadn’t done the same. Eve knew exactly what people saw when they looked at her. She’d spent her life fighting that perception, before she’d learned to use it to her advantage.

His grin did intriguing things to a face that would border on pretty if not for the edge of hardness in his eyes. “I’m guessing those two are figuring the same thing about right now. I can’t believe their boss will be pleased to hear how the scene went down.” His Scottish was flawless, although she knew it wasn’t his first language. Earlier he’d mentioned a gran and grandda and she’d bet they were the Scottish Gaelic native speakers, who in turn had passed down that part of their culture to their grandson. “Our position is stronger than it would have been if they’d just hijacked us off the street. Had they succeeded, we would have lost all bargaining power. Now we’ve commanded a bit of respect. At least if we’re correct and they were sent by someone else.”

“Or pissed off some very dangerous people if they aren’t.” But she tended to agree. She’d spent the past eight years working in close proximity to power. Those who wielded it and those who sought it. The two who’d attempted to kidnap them were no doubt dangerous. Just the thought of meeting them without Declan at her side sent cold waves of fear radiating through her. But in Eve’s experience those at the top tended to avoid getting their own hands dirty.

Digging in her purse, she brought out the phone that Raiker had supplied to replace her personal cell. Bringing up the notepad option she quickly wrote the word Slovenian on the screen and walked over to show it to him. There was no Scottish translation for the word.

Declan frowned over at it for a moment. “Odd, isn’t it that we have dirt balls from two different countries represented in this operation? Gangs and criminal networks tend to be homogenous. Same thing at the transnational level, with the possible exception of cybercrime, with its guarantee of anonymity.”

Malsovic had been a Serb, she recalled, deleting the note she’d written. And according to what Declan had told her, the man had never spoken English in front of Royce. Either because he didn’t know the language or because he’d been taking the same precautions they were.

“They exchanged little else of interest in our presence.” She moved toward the couch, in an effort to put space between them. She should be used to him by now, but something about him still made her a bit edgy. Those enigmatic gray eyes and raven hair would warrant a second glance from any female under ninety. But it was the faint sheen of danger that surrounded him that was her own personal kryptonite. “There were commands to get in, to take your weapon, to hurry. The two likely came from the southern region of their country, as they spoke with the same dialect.”

Declan shrugged off his gray Columbia jacket, and hung it on the back of a dining room chair. Although that was perhaps a charitable way to describe the cramped area adjacent to the kitchen counter. The apartment was essentially one room with a kitchenette tucked into the corner. A minuscule bathroom and tiny bedroom opened off the main area. It was small. His presence always seemed to shrink it.

Dropping on the couch, Eve picked up the book she’d been reading that morning. But instead of opening it, she watched him draw his gloves on before handling the weapon he’d taken from their would-be kidnapper and unloading it. After scanning the space for a moment, he put the clip on the shelf of the closet where they’d hung their coats before disappearing into the bedroom. A moment later he returned and jammed his gloves into the pocket of his coat. “For future reference, I put my gun under the mattress. His is in the bedroom closet next to yours. I should have asked before, do you know how to load your weapon?”

“Yes.”

His expression grew speculative, but he said only, “Good. First available chance we’ll have the one we took off our friend tested for prints, so I’ll need to get it to…”

“Adhamh,” she provided when he seemed to search for how to say Adam in Scottish.
Ah-guv.

“Yeah.” When his gaze didn’t move away from her Eve opened her book, pretended to read. Found herself staring blindly at the page. “What exactly do you do in the course of your job?”

Although she’d managed to dodge similar questions over the past couple of days, she knew he wouldn’t be put off again. “Translate foreign documents. Provide interpreter services for diplomats as needed.” She flashed him a smile. “Boring stuff.” The explanation always satisfied her family. But they were conditioned to expect the mundane from her. For some reason Declan looked unconvinced.

“Uh-huh.” His eyes were the color of dense impenetrable fog, a stark contrast to his dark hair. And his unblinking gaze was more than a little unnerving. “Boring stuff that requires you to know how to load a gun and to carry a knife in your boot?”

“Single woman, living alone.” With effort she focused on her book again. Turned the page although she hadn’t read a word. “Just makes sense to take precautions.”

“I suppose, although I can’t imagine any of the females in my extended family having the fortitude to hold a knife to a stranger’s throat, much less carrying one to begin with.”

“Lucky for you, perhaps.”

His dark brows rose.

“You said they get angry when you offer advice,” she clarified, more than a little relieved that the topic had shifted away from her. “Best that they aren’t armed.”

He tapped an index finger against the corner of his right eye. “See this scar? Bella threw a ceramic elephant at me when we were eleven. I must have dodged into it, because athletic she’s not. Split the skin and required four stitches.”

Fascinated despite herself, Eve gave up the pretense of reading and stared. “Is she your sister?”

“Stepsister from my mother’s third marriage.” He unbuckled the shoulder harness and set it with the weapon on the small table beside the leather recliner he favored. “She still has a hair trigger temper.” Amazingly, his tone was indulgent. “There are eighteen of us in all, step and half. Flotsam from my parents’ serial marriages. We keep in touch. Habit, maybe. Spend a week together at my grandfather’s home in Hyannis Port every July. With everyone’s kids and spouses the group numbers almost fifty. By mid-week my ears are ringing and I’m looking for a quiet place to hide.”

Eve tried and failed to think of a single time her family had ever taken a vacation together. There had been outings growing up, of course. Museums, opera and ballet, most with an au pair in attendance rather than her parents. Margaret and Ronald Larrison’s lives revolved around their careers. Their research. Her siblings were enough older than her that they’d been away at private schools by the time her memories started. And when she’d been old enough to follow in their footsteps it had been with something akin to relief.

She could, however, heartily empathize with his wanting to hide from his family when they got together. Holidays often affected her the same way.

As usual thoughts of her family had her slamming mental doors. “When do you think they’ll reach out again?”

He went to the coat closet and reached to take something off the shelf. The place had been equipped for this assignment prior to their arrival, and one piece of equipment that he used daily was the hand held bug sweeper. He paced the small area now, holding the device in his outstretched hand as he scanned the place. “Soon. They’ve obviously been watching us since they knew where we’d be. Probably split up, so as not to draw attention until they were ready to make their move. Now they have to go back to their boss, whoever it is, and admit they failed. He won’t be happy, but we still have something he wants. My guess is he’ll ask nicer next time.” Finishing with the small living area, he moved toward the kitchen.

She recognized sugar coating when she heard it. Eve slanted a look at the door. It seemed just as likely that they’d try again, with more force the next time, but there was no sense debating the point with him. They’d find out soon enough.

Curling her feet up on the couch beside her, she tugged the coverlet over her lap and returned to her book. Patience had been a trait hard learned, but it had served her well throughout the long years at private academies. Eve lifted her gaze to study Declan as he moved into the bedroom with the detection device. She was less well acquainted with faith, at least when it came to depending on another.

As she’d told him, she carried the knife because she was unused to depending on others....for anything. But the most disconcerting part of the day was the realization that armed or not, she’d never doubted that Declan Gallagher would have protected her. For a woman used to relying only on herself, it was more than a little alarming to discover that level of trust for a man who was for all intents and purposes a stranger.

_______

Jaid Raiker entered
the room serving as her husband’s home office, only to stop inside the door.

Adam was on his cell. There were times in the past few months when she’d imagined it was glued to his ear, which was unfortunate, since he detested speaking on the phone. More often than not he insisted on video chats. He preferred to look in the face of whomever he was talking to if possible. She’d often considered him a human lie detector.

But he’d foregone that personal preference as a safety precaution. He hadn’t wanted to allow any hints of Royce’s new location, not even to those he trusted most. Because when it came to their son’s safety—or hers—Adam trusted no one but himself. She couldn’t fault him for that.

He gestured for her to stay so she closed the door. She strolled about, the ornate trappings lost on her. The estate was luxurious, but it had been selected for its remote location and security. And though it was petty of her Jaid thought it resembled a prison more than a home. Maybe Royce’s complaints were rubbing off on her. More likely it was the constant restrictions on their lives that were driving her a little mad. Almost three months of forced inactivity would be enough to get on anyone’s nerves. And that wasn’t taking into consideration the continued threat to her son.

“I assume Royce is otherwise occupied.”

She jerked around. Finished with his call, he was regarding her with a knowing glint in his eye. “He’s in the home theater watching Devlin and Ramsey’s live stream as they visit the National Zoo. That will keep him occupied for hours. Thank you for arranging it.”

“He’s always been a fan of the Strykers. And the pandas.” He watched her pace for a bit longer. “Gallagher hasn’t checked in. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The news had her shoulders slumping a fraction. “Oh. So no contact has been attempted with them yet.”

Adam shrugged. “I’ll hear from them when they have something of note to report. I wanted to show you something else.” He held out a hand and it took little urging for her to go to his side. His arm slipped around her waist and he walked them around the desk to face his computer screen. “I told you about the unidentified corpse matching Hobart’s general physical description.”

Pulse quickening, Jaid looked at him. “You said Caitlyn Fleming and Aislynn Nichels were working together on the facial reconstruction. Have they finished?”

As an answer he reached out with an index finger to tap some keys, bringing up a continuum of photos. “They tried superimposition first, and the match was close enough to compel them to make a full cast.”

She nodded. The method would have had the women aligning Hobart’s photo ID retrieved from the cyber trail on the school’s server and then superimposing it over the skull of the corpse. The sketches would have been less helpful in the process, since they differed somewhat from each other. Their value had been the similarities described by both subjects and their likeness to the photo.

Intrigued, Jaid peered more closely at the screen as Adam clicked through the pictures. The first several shots show 2D images of the skull before it had been cleaned and after. The next photos depicted the clay cast that had been made of the skull, with the tissue depth markers in place. This type of forensic work had always fascinated her, but her focus now was on the possibility that she was looking at her son’s kidnapper. Quickly she scanned the images of the model with prosthetic eyes, progressed to the ones with the eyelids and brows blocked in. The final shots had the cheek area and nose approximations added.