Tymber Dalton (28 page)

* * * *

Libbie decided to leave on Sunday, after stewing about it for more than a day following her talk with Mandaline.

“You sure you want to do this, sugar?” Lines of concern etched Grover’s face.

“Yeah. I miss them so much.” She wasn’t looking forward to the drive with the deep ache in her body, not to mention the occasional queasiness she’d been having, but she knew a night in her men’s arms would make it more than worth it. “They’re all I can think about. I’ll come back Tuesday night. You can put up a sign on the door if you want instead of opening.”

He waved that suggestion away. “We can run the place, don’t worry. I’ll just make the usuals, nothing fancy. And I’ll take care of the brat cat for you.” His brow furrowed. “They said it’d be dangerous to be with them until after the trial ended.”

“I know. But I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. Miami is a really big place. I can’t imagine there being any trouble.”

He let out a heavy sigh and straightened, taking a step away from the car door. “Yes, you are a big girl. But it don’t mean I won’t worry about you every minute you’re gone. You make sure you call me, okay?”

She nodded. “I will.”

She pulled out and made her way to head east on SR 50 to the interstate. She’d take I-75 all the way down to Alligator Alley and across to Miami. With gas and bathroom stops, she figured she could make it in about five hours.

I’m done waiting.
Sitting on her hands praying their weekly call would come sucked.

Libbie glanced at the phone they’d given her, which sat on the passenger seat. Yes, tonight was their call night. She planned to be in Miami by the time she received it, to meet them somewhere, even if only for a few hours. She missed them, wanted them. Wanted to be in their arms.

Wanted to have a good, long cry, with more than her pillow and Galileo to comfort her.

* * * *

When she reached the eastern end of Alligator Alley just after ten that night, she heard the disposable phone beep that a voice mail awaited her. Which was odd, because she’d never heard it ring.

They should have called by now.

Frowning, she reached for it while not taking her eyes off the road. She held it up and glanced at the screen.

No missed calls, but the voice mail icon flashed. So did the roaming icon.

Swearing, she put it on speaker mode and hit the speed dial button for voice mail.

“Hey, babe, it’s Allan. We’re just checking in for our weekly call.”

“I’m here, too,” Ben chimed in.

“We miss you. We’ll try calling back in a little while. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Ben added.

She hit
save
and dropped the phone back onto the passenger seat. From the time stamp on the voice mail, it had arrived while she was in the middle of the Alley.

Must not have had cell reception.

When she stopped for gas twenty minutes later, taking a moment to run inside to use the bathroom and grab a snack, she swore again upon finding she had another voice mail waiting on her phone when she returned to the car.

And still no missed call alerts. The flashing of the roaming icon seemed to mock her.

“Shit!”

As always, she had no phone number where she could call them back. The number showed up as unavailable on her screen.

For the hell of it, she tried the cells Ben and Allan had used while in Brooksville and left voice mail messages for both of them.

While she appreciated their concern, the situation wore on her and had taxed what little remained of her patience. “Bianco be damned, I’m sick of not being with my guys,” she muttered under her breath.

Another beep caught her attention. Her regular cell phone, which she’d forgotten to put on the charger, was almost dead. The low battery warning appeared on the screen. Too tired to hunt down the car charger for it in her overnight bag, she turned it off and dropped it in her purse.

Not like they’d call me on that one anyway.

Armed with the maps she’d printed out before leaving home, she headed toward Miami.

* * * *

Libbie sat in her car and stared at the deserted house, her tears of disappointment rolling down her cheeks, hot and burning. It was hard to tell if they weren’t really staying there, because the lawn was well kept and there weren’t any old papers in the drive or unclaimed mail in the mailbox out front.

By 1:00 a.m. she knew they weren’t staying there. Worse, the deep ache in her body from the drive had now turned into a screaming agony she knew she’d pay for the next morning.

Well, later
this
morning.

Defeated, she drove back the way she came until she found a hotel in what looked like a reasonably safe neighborhood. Fortunately, they had a room available. She went ahead and booked it for two nights, hoping she would need it that long.

Even luckier, she’d only packed one bag, easily toted up to her room on the third floor. Locking herself in, she immediately headed for the tub. Only once she’d sunk into the hot water did she let her tears flow again.

Getting out of the tub thirty minutes later proved problematic. Her body had revolted, turning traitorous and stealing her strength even as unrelenting pain assaulted her. She finally managed to get out. After drying off, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her.

* * * *

Ben hung up, a frown on his face as he studied the phone.

“What?” Allan said.

He shook his head. “This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at Allan. “Something’s wrong. No way she would miss our call. She never does.” Seven weeks away from Libbie, and his heart ached. He dreamed of her nearly every night and longed to hop in the car and just drive to Brooksville to see her.

He didn’t dare. He suspected Bianco had people trying to figure out “Allan’s” every move, waiting for a chance to strike.

Maybe it was overkill, as Allan had accused him on several occasions. He didn’t care. He couldn’t risk her safety, or Allan’s. Not to mention he had to stay in Miami to protect Allan. Several times he’d eluded people he discovered following him. It was why they moved from hotel to hotel, never staying in the same one more than a week.

They just couldn’t risk it.

Ben knew he could testify in full disguise, and Bianco would still never know what he looked like for sure. After the trial, he’d shave or dye his hair and disappear to Brooksville for good.

By then, it wouldn’t matter. Bianco would be in jail, and the least of the mobster’s problems would be hunting him or Allan down with the Feds crawling up his ass with their separate trial looming on the horizon.

Not to mention figuring out how to fend off takeovers from within his own ranks.

But until the trial was complete and a verdict rendered, Ben knew he had to bide his time.

He found himself unable to sleep, and was still mulling it over the next morning as they were preparing for their usual routine. He tried calling Libbie again and silently swore when it went immediately to voice mail.

“Call Grover,” Allan suggested.

Ben nodded. But instead of using the phone they used to call Libbie, he retrieved another disposable cell phone he’d yet to use, one registered to a New York State number, and called from that.

A paranoid abundance of caution, granted, but he wouldn’t put his friends at risk, either.

When Grover’s voice mail picked up, Ben silently swore again and waited for it to play through before leaving a message. “Hi, Grover. This is Ken. I’m having trouble reaching that person you referred me to. I’ll try calling back later.” He hung up without leaving a number. Yes, Grover knew the truth about their identities, but he also knew as a former lawyer, the man would understand why he insisted on elaborate precautions.

And Grover would know exactly who he was referring to.

When he tried ten minutes later, just as they were getting ready to leave the room, he was surprised when Grover answered on the first ring. “Ken?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s not there yet?”

Ben felt his guts ice over at the frantic tone in Grover’s voice. “What do you mean she’s not here yet? What are you talking about?”

“She left here late yesterday. Should have been there last night. Said she was heading to…ah…Charles’ place.”

Fear gripped Ben as he turned to Allan. “We’re not there.”

“What? I tried calling her cell this morning and it’s going to voice mail.”

“What’s going on?” Allan asked. “Is Libbie okay?”

Ben waved at him to shut up. “I’ll try her regular cell phone. Look, take my work number. Do you have something to write with?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

He rattled off his county-issued cell phone number. “Call me immediately if you hear from her.”

Grover repeated the number back. “Will do.”

He hung up and looked at Allan. “Change of plans. I need the keys to your house.”

“What? Why? What the hell’s going on?”

“Apparently Libbie decided to come to Miami to see us. We need to get you to work—”

“Fuck that. I want to help find her.”

“Listen. I need you to get to the office. I can’t find her if I’m worried about keeping you safe. We’ve managed to keep you under the radar and out of Bianco’s line of fire—”

“Fuck. That. I love her, and I’m going to help find her. Try calling her regular cell phone.”

Ben dialed it from memory on the New York phone, swearing as it, too, went immediately to voice mail. “Listen, honey, we just talked to Grover and found out you’re traveling. You need to call me immediately.” He left the New York cell number.

Allan looked as grim as he felt. “So we start at my house? I know she has that address.”

“Give me a minute to think.” He stared at the cell phone in his hand and willed it to ring.

“Can’t we issue a BOLO on her car or something?”

“No!” Ben turned and stared at Allan in shocked disbelief. “You want to paint a target on her back? And you cannot show up at your house. They see you and realize who you are, the whole charade’s busted. They need to keep thinking I’m you.”

“This is stupid,” Allan insisted. “This is Libbie we’re talking about. Fuck your damn paranoid procedures. We need to find her.”

“Shut up!” He paced a circle around the hotel room, finally stopping midway through his third circuit. “We’ll go pick up your car, but you have to stay down in the backseat.” He pulled on the suit coat, which completed the look and made him look like Allan the assistant state’s attorney, as well as helped conceal his bulletproof vest. Allan, dressed in khakis and a button-up Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, looked like a paralegal or office assistant. His now-shaggy dyed-blond hair hung past his shoulders and was pulled back with a ponytail band. Allan grabbed his battered canvas messenger bag, which housed his laptop and looked like it belonged in a Dumpster, before following Ben out the door.

* * * *

The next morning, even though Libbie awoke at eight, it took her nearly twenty minutes to flex and stretch enough she could force her arms and legs into obeying her commands to get out of bed. Then back to the shower, where she stood under the spray, as hot as she could stand it, for twenty minutes. Not to mention her stomach was upset, feeling queasy, likely due to her pain. She’d noticed it happening more often over the past couple of weeks, usually disappearing once she got some food into her. She’d stopped taking her pain medication to see if that helped, thinking maybe the medicine was causing it, and that seemed to alleviate some of it.

No way I’m driving back today, regardless of whether I find them or not.

Just the thought of going downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant almost felt like more than she could take.

Ben refused to give her details of their work days, deftly stepping around her questions to guide the conversation in other directions. She loved him for his concern, but it irritated her that she had no idea where he lived, or where they were staying since they obviously weren’t staying at Allan’s house, much less where he worked now that he wasn’t on the street any longer. And the thought of visiting every sheriff’s station in the county filled her with dread.

Or was he with Miami-Dade police?

She couldn’t remember for sure now, the foggy fuzziness refusing to release its tenacious hold on her mind.

Allan, however, would be easier to find. She’d already looked up his office information. Remembering his admonishments to never call him at work from a traceable phone unless it was an absolute emergency, she hadn’t bothered phoning him.

But maybe he’ll be there. Or have an office assistant who can find him for me.

With a deep sigh, she shut the water off and climbed out, slowly toweling herself dry with muscles that refused to loosen up.

When she went to get dressed, she realized not only was her regular cell phone dead, so was the disposable one.