Watch Your Back (7 page)

‘I will. Thank you, Dr Walker.’ Fitzpatrick stood up. ‘Can I take you anywhere?’

‘To the hospital. I’m going with her.’

Hunt Valley, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 5.00
P.M.

Clay checked his rearview mirror and frowned. The white Camry was still there.

Alec craned his neck around to look out of the back window. ‘How long has it been following us?’ he asked in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper.

The cab of Clay’s truck was hushed, Cordelia having fallen asleep in the backseat.

‘At least since we left the florist,’ Clay murmured back. They’d stopped at a flower shop in downtown Hunt Valley after Cordelia had finished her riding lesson. Clay had picked up the daffodils for his mother’s grave and Cordelia had asked if she could take some flowers to her mother, hoping to charm her into not being angry with her about the equine therapy.

The bunch of rosebuds she’d chosen for Stevie lay next to her on the backseat. Clay hoped they did the trick and that if Stevie got mad, she’d take it out on him and not her daughter.

‘I thought we’d lost them at the ice cream shop,’ he went on, ‘but the driver was just playing with us.’ Whoever followed them knew what he was doing, staying back just far enough to prevent them from seeing the license plate number.

‘None of our current cases involve a white Camry,’ Alec said. He held up his phone. ‘I checked our database.’

‘Thanks.’ Clay checked the mirror again. The Camry was two cars back. ‘Is Cordelia still buckled in?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Because I’m going to try to lose this asshole on the Parkway.’ He merged onto the six-lane highway and waited for the Camry to follow. When it did, he waited until the next exit was in sight and at the last minute pulled onto the shoulder and stopped hard. The Camry shot by, unable to pull over in time to make the exit ramp. Clay peeled off the ramp, satisfied. ‘I’ll take us down back roads. It’ll take us a bit longer to get Cordelia home, but it’ll be safer. I don’t want to lead him to Stevie’s house, whoever the hell he is.’

Alec looked over his shoulder. ‘She’s still asleep. I can’t believe she didn’t wake up.’

Cordelia hadn’t moved, still curled up in the corner of the big backseat. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping well,’ Clay said. ‘I guess it just caught up to her.’

‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Alec said quietly. ‘Kid’s been through the wringer.’ His phone beeped and he checked it. ‘It’s a rental. The white Camry, I mean.’

Clay shot him a surprised glance. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I got the license when it passed us by. I ran a search.’

‘On your phone. God, I am so old. Who did the renting?’

‘This search engine doesn’t give me the name. We’ll have to check the rental agency.’

‘The rental places at the airport will still be open on a Saturday night. We can head to BWI after we drop Cordelia off with her mother.’

It was a relief to have a task already waiting for him, because staying busy seemed to be the thing that kept him sane each time Stevie Mazzetti shoved him out of her life. That she would again tonight was a certainty. He was calmly driving into a tornado, knowing the cost.

And if that wasn’t true insanity, he wasn’t sure what would be.

Chapter Four

Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 5.30
P.M.

‘
H
ey, Mom?’ Standing in his mother’s kitchen, Officer Sam Hudson opened the door to the basement. ‘Are you down there, Mom?’

‘Yes, son.’ Out of breath, she was struggling with a laundry basket.

Oh, for God’s sake
. ‘Mom, stop that.’ He took the stairs two at a time and lifted the basket from her hands. ‘You’re not supposed to carry heavy things. You just had heart surgery. Triple bypass. Remember?’ Irritated, he started up the stairs without waiting for her reply.

This
was why he stopped by on his way to his own apartment after every shift and on his days off, too. He half expected to find her at the bottom of the stairs, passed out under a pile of laundry. Of course it would be clean laundry. His mother would be too embarrassed to be found passed out under dirty laundry.

‘Yes, son,’ she repeated, climbing the stairs behind him. ‘I remember. I was there, right there on the operating table. Just like I was there when you were born. Hmm. When would that have been? Let me think. Oh, right. Only thirty years ago. I’m sixty-two, last I checked. Which makes me both older and your mother. So stop telling me what to do. That’s my job.’

He put the basket on the kitchen table. ‘To tell me what to do or to tell yourself?’

‘Both.’ She nudged him out of the way to open the oven, allowing wonderful aromas to escape. ‘And I have seniority so you’re not getting my job.’

He took an appreciative sniff. ‘You made pot roast. You are a queen among mothers.’

‘I know,’ she said regally, then laughed.

Sam smiled, finding contentment in the sound. He’d been so terrified he’d lose her during the surgery, that he’d never hear her laugh again. ‘You’re also a sneak, using the smell of pot roast to divert my attention from your bad behavior.’

‘Whatever works,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If you want to help me, then set the table.’

Sam grabbed plates from the cupboard, pausing when the thick bubble-wrap envelope on the counter caught his eye. The envelope was propped up between the Washington Monument salt-and-pepper shakers he’d bought for his mother on a field trip to DC when he’d been eleven years old. They were only cheap souvenirs, but he’d bought them with money he’d earned himself because her birthday was coming up.

And because he knew his father would have forgotten because he was too high or out looking for his next fix. His mother had made a fuss over those cheap souvenirs like he’d bought her solid gold and had kept them on the counter ever since.

Sam picked up the envelope that read
Samuel J. Hudson
, cleanly typed on a mailing label. ‘When did this come, Mom?’

She looked up from the potatoes she was mashing. ‘Today. There’s no return address. I thought it might be junk, but I wasn’t sure. It’s got something in it. Too heavy to be anthrax.’

He stifled his laugh because he knew she was serious. His mother watched entirely too much television. ‘Come on, Mom, who would be sending me anthrax?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re a policeman. Maybe you made somebody mad at you.’

‘It’s not anthrax,’ he muttered, opening the envelope.

‘Isn’t that what I said? So what is it?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Carefully he emptied the contents on the table.

And heard her gasp. There was an old Orioles cap that Sam immediately recognized, and a dozen old, worn-out photos. And sitting on top of the photos was a plain gold wedding band.

She stood, pale as a ghost, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes filling with tears. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘Sam. Oh dear God.’

Her hand trembling, she picked up the ring between her thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s his. It’s your father’s. It has his initials inside. I had it engraved the day before our wedding.’

Sam fanned the photos out on the table. They were either wallet-sized portraits or snapshots cut to be wallet-sized. His parents on their wedding day. A snapshot of Sam and his mom wearing leis, taken by his father on their one and only family vacation to Hawaii. The pictures of Sam were school portraits, all from elementary school.

When they were still a family. Before his father became a junkie who’d stolen from them, lied to them. Used his fists on them when he needed a fix.

The only recent photo was the one taken at the police academy, the day Sam had graduated. His father had shown up, shaved and sober. He’d behaved himself and Sam and his mother had once again hoped.

Six months later his father was using again. And then one day he’d simply disappeared without a trace. Without a word. There had been no contact of any kind . . . until today.

‘Why?’ his mother cried. ‘What does this mean?’

‘I don’t know, Mom,’ Sam said quietly, but that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what it meant – and suspected she did, too. It meant that his father was dead and may have been for a long time. That someone either just found his stuff or just got around to sending it.

‘He had his ring.’ Her voice broke, her shoulders shaking with harsh, heaving sobs. ‘He had his ring all along. I . . . Oh, God, Sam. I accused him of selling it. For his habit. He promised me he hadn’t, but he wasn’t wearing it the last time I saw him.’

Sam had never been able to stand seeing his mother cry, even though he had a lot of practice doing so, which was just one of the reasons he hated his father so much. Gently he drew her into his arms, patting her back. Wishing he knew what the hell to say.

How many times had they done this same thing? How many times had he patted her back helplessly as she sobbed her heart out? Not in eight years. Not since his old man had left without a backward look. That someone would put his mother through this now . . .

The wedding ring clenched into her fist, she pressed her face into Sam’s shirt. ‘It was the last straw, seeing his finger bare. Having him
lie
to me about not selling it. I told him to get out of my life. Never to come back. And he never did. God help me, he never did.’ Her sobs became more desperate, each breath she drew harder than the last until Sam’s helplessness became fear.

‘Mom, please. You have to calm down. You’ll have another heart attack.’

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t lie. He still had it. Why didn’t he wear it?’

God only knew why his father had done any of the things he’d done. He’d probably pawned it for drug money or maybe even had taken it off because he was having an affair.

‘I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know. But throwing him out was something you had to do. He was never going to get clean.’

Her sobs faded to little whimpers. ‘But he might still be alive if I’d let him stay.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Sam said gently. ‘He was an addict. He wasn’t going to change. That has nothing to do with you or what you said.’

Another heavy sigh. ‘I suppose.’

‘I
know
.’ He tipped up her chin. ‘Go wash your face. I’ll finish mashing the potatoes and setting the table.’

Steeling her shoulders, she turned for the powder room, her step even less steady than it had been, and once again Sam cursed his father to burn in hell. Even dead, the old man managed to break his mother’s heart.

He widened the mouth of the envelope to slide the hat and the pictures back in, but paused. Stuck in the bottom of the envelope, snagged by the bubble wrap, was a matchbook. Carefully he worked it loose, pulled it out. Then froze. On the matchbook’s face was a drawing of a woman wearing nothing but bunny ears, with ‘The Rabbit Hole’ printed beneath.

His heart was suddenly pounding so hard it was all he could hear.
The Rabbit Hole
. The powder room door was still closed. His mother hadn’t seen.
Thank God
.

That the matchbook would be among his father’s things should have come as no surprise. It would have been the kind of sleazy place his father would have patronized, but it wasn’t the kind of place Sam frequented. His mom had brought him up better than that. Sam had never been to the place.

Except that one time.

That one night. The night he’d made himself forget.

Oh my God
. He thought about the timing of the arrival of the envelope in his hand and had to swallow back a wave of nausea.

It’s not possible. It’s just not
.

The water stopped and he heard his mother’s shuffling steps in the hall. Guiltily, Sam shoved the matchbook into his pants pocket.

Looking more worn than he’d seen her in weeks, his mother returned to the kitchen and lowered herself into a chair. She opened her clenched fist and stared at the ring on her palm. ‘I just don’t understand why today of all days,’ she said wearily. ‘Who could be so cruel? Who would even know?’ She didn’t look away from the ring. ‘When was that envelope mailed?’

Sam’s hand trembled as he turned the envelope over to check the postmark. ‘Yesterday.’
Oh my God. This is not happening. Not possible
. But it was happening. ‘From Baltimore.’

‘Yesterday,’ she repeated dully. ‘The day I threw him out was eight years ago yesterday.’

Sam had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. ‘I didn’t know that was the day you threw him out. I thought you threw him out months before.’

‘I did. But he came back that night, not wearing his ring. So I threw him out and told him to never come back. And he didn’t.’

That night
 . . . The night he’d gone to the Rabbit Hole had been eight years ago yesterday.

The night that had come before the morning he’d woken alone in a dirty hotel room on the wrong side of town, hung over and smelling like a brewery.

With a revolver on the floor beside him. A revolver that was not his Baltimore PD issued sidearm. A revolver that been fired recently.

The morning he’d woken hadn’t been the very next day. He’d woken just before dawn,
thirty hours later
. Not a moment of which he had any recollection of whatsoever.

He’d lost a day of his life. He’d lost
this
day of his life, eight years ago.

Dad, what the fuck did you do?
Sam carefully exhaled.
And what the fuck did
I
do?

Saturday, March 15, 6.05
P.M.

Two women were dead, their faces etched in Stevie’s mind. The woman who’d done nothing more than show up for a wedding anniversary lunch with her husband had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. As had the waitress, who’d done nothing more than show up for work.
Because of bullets meant for me
.

Stevie paused at the bottom of her front porch steps, looking up at her house with weary determination.
Déjà vu.
She’d stood just like this a few hours ago, looking up at the stairs leading up to Harbor House’s front door, cursing each step, her useless leg, and the crazy teenaged bitch who’d shot her three months ago.

Now she was cursing the steps, her useless leg, her arm that throbbed and burned like hellfire, the crazy teenaged bitch who’d shot her three months ago, and the gunman who’d shot her four hours ago. It hadn’t been much more than a graze. But it still hurt.

But you’re alive. Unlike Elissa Selmon and Angie Thurman.
Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back.
Goddammit
.

The house was dark. Quiet. The minivan was gone from the driveway. Cordelia and Izzy weren’t home yet. Which would be perfect except that Stevie had no idea where they were because Izzy hadn’t answered any of her texts, voicemails, or emails.

Dammit, Izzy. Where are you? Where is my daughter? Please let her be all right. Please don’t let her be hurt. Don’t let her be—

Stop this. You’ll be no good to anyone if you panic. Cordelia is all right
.

She
had
to be all right. Wherever she and Izzy were.

Which at least wasn’t here. Stevie didn’t want them around her. She didn’t want anyone around her.
I have a price on my head
. And the collection agency didn’t seem terribly worried about collateral damage.

‘Um, Stevie?’ Emma’s calm voice came from just behind her, on her right. ‘You’re still a target, hon. Let’s get you up the stairs and in the house.’

‘Or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you up,’ JD added grimly from her left.

Stevie clenched her teeth, but did as he said, propelling herself up her front steps. ‘I don’t need a bodyguard or a babysitter. If you touch me, JD, you’ll be singing soprano for a week.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ JD muttered. ‘One last time, Stevie. Go to the goddamn safe house.’

‘One last time, JD,
no
. I will not be driven from my home.’ Stevie hissed a curse when her key missed the lock entirely. Her hand was trembling, dammit. Like an old woman’s.

Or like a person who’d just watched two people die.
Because you wouldn’t back off. You had to pursue Silas’s old cases. You had to know. You won’t leave well enough alone
.

The inner voice that taunted her morphed from her own to that of her twin. Sorin had been so upset when he’d called last night to beg her to stop the investigations that were bringing the slime out of the woodwork. Begged her to let the other cops review all of Silas’s old cases.

She’d heard the love and fear in his voice . . . and then the furious disgust when she’d refused to back down, because BPD
was
investigating. They’d formed a special task force that had spent the last year reopening dozens of cases thrown by dirty cops working in secret for an even dirtier defense attorney. But there were so many cases and Silas hadn’t been the only dirty cop.

But he was my partner. My responsibility
. She couldn’t, wouldn’t walk away.

And now? Now that she knew that the dozens of cases BPD knew about might be only the tip of the iceberg? Now that she knew that more dirty cops still walked the street? Still wore a badge, just like Silas had done for all the years they’d been partners?

She couldn’t walk away.

But none of this had she been able to share with her brother. Instead, she’d borne his rage in silence, which he’d interpreted as sullen stubbornness.