The Shadow Guard Page 8

  “Maryland plates?” exclaimed Fisher. “Is that Williams’s rental car?”

  “Yup. It was ticketed on the day of the snowstorm.” Jake crossed his arms and almost wished he was back working traffic detail. Resolving crime with a multipart form made everything so much simpler, not to mention more profitable for Belhaven.

  “Why the hell didn’t we know about it right away?” demanded Fisher.

  “See where it’s parked, off to the roadside? It got plowed in by the big snowplows.”

  Hamilton obligingly popped up later images, all time stamped, showing mountains of snow and ice being heaped over the sedan by enormous yellow plows driving past.

  “It was days before the county towed it”—profitably—“and the rental company claimed it. Was it a long-term rental?”

  “Yes,” agreed Murphy cautiously. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “At that point, the car rental company notified the renter—Ms. Williams—that they’d repossessed the car. They will continue to charge her for the rental until they hear from her or until the lease runs out, whichever comes first. Since she’s dead—”

  “They never heard from her,” Fisher said. “Crap.”

  “The car effectively vanished—and the rental company’s making money.” Murphy sounded like a woman, always looking for sales.

  “It’s what the lease agreement calls for.” There were some pieces of paperwork Jake was willing to fight or subvert. There were others he simply lived with, like car rental agreements. Starting out in traffic detail, when he’d wanted to be a homicide cop, had taught him a lot about the difference. “It was eventually towed to an impound lot, where we found it. Everything inside was untouched.”

  “Everything?” Murphy cocked her head at him. “Briefcase, computer, suitcase? Info on the current real estate deal?”

  “Everything,” Jake reaffirmed. “Even her purse was there. She hadn’t even taken her keys.”

  “Crazy,” Murphy muttered.

  He couldn’t have said it better himself.

  “Why are you looking at these moments in time?” Fisher tapped time stamps on two different monitors. “They’re before the car got ticketed.”

  “Williams’s mother’s appeal last night for witnesses?”

  “So?” Murphy blinked at him before enlightenment lit her eyes. “You got a useful tip already?”

  “A driver was passed by the speeding Ms. Williams.”

  “He’s sure he saw her?” queried Fisher sharply.

  “Very. He’s an NCIS investigator who was on his way home who can describe her car. He’s still upset about her speed.” There was more than one way to identify a victim and Jake was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth. “We’ll put out another call for witnesses, narrowing the time frame, of course.”

  “Go on,” said Murphy and gulped coffee, as if preparing for battle.

  The second large-screen monitor snapped into life.

  “Later, he saw her stopped by the roadside next to an unmarked police car, talking to a plainclothes officer.”

  “Any ticket filed?”

  “None on record.”

  “What?!”

  “We searched all local jurisdictions and both states. There’s nothing for this car or Ms. Williams.” A fact that sent cold waves rippling across his skin faster than the sound of bullets being fired.

  “Description of the man?” Murphy’s question would have pulled answers from a grave.

  “Witness was looking at Williams, not him.”

  “God damn it, did he notice anything at all?”

  Time had taught Jake not to predict eyewitnesses’ vagaries, even when he’d honed his cursing skills on them. Even so, this lapse hurt more than most, no matter how stunning Ms. Wiliams’s curves had been.

  “Best guess is white, average height, average weight, possibly thirty or forty. Maybe fifty.” Jake’s drawl thickened, the way it always did when he was stressed.

  “That describes half the men in America’s jails!” Fisher exclaimed and kicked the table leg hard enough to jostle any unattended coffee cups.

  “Pretty much. But our witness did note the time, since he was trying to make it home for dinner.”

  An image of two sedans, with two people standing before them, popped up on the second monitor. Cars and trucks hovered nearby, ready to dash into motion, while scattered gray blobs blurred the pavement and sky in snow’s first dusting.

  “Here’s the first shot where the car is pulled over,” Hamilton announced.

  “Hey, the second car is there, too.” Fisher bolted around the table to Hamilton’s workstation. “It looks big enough to be a Crown Vic.”

  “Virginia State troopers avoid obvious cop cars for their unmarkeds,” Murphy remarked in a tone that would have made a college professor rethink an exam question.

  Jake traced the car’s tiny outline on the monitor with his finger. He couldn’t tell whether it was foreign or domestic, or even guess if it sat two or four people.

  His gut settled solidly between his ribs, content that this was Melinda Williams’s killer. Then again, his brain needed to be sure she was there.

  “Enhance it for me, please, Hamilton?” he asked. “I’d like to get a better look.”

  “Yeah, I want to see this rat’s face.” Fisher braced a hand on Hamilton’s chair back and leaned over his shoulder.

  “Or his license plate, since he was the last to see her alive.” Murphy’s breath almost fogged the big monitor.

  Keys clacked rapidly and the mouse’s small arrow darted over the image. Then a small circle whirled around the arrowhead and Hamilton watched, his hands poised over the keyboard.

  Jake drank his last drops of coffee and tried not to think about how long this was taking. He’d seen demos before of the traffic center’s wonder systems. They’d always whizzed through bringing up license plates.

  Maybe he’d text Astrid later and see if she could join him in Argos. Hell, maybe Astrid could confirm that this guy was the same guy she’d seen.

  The monitor shimmered for an instant and settled back into the same picture, leaving Melinda Williams and her killer each approximately the same size as Jake’s thumb.

  Jake’s gut began a long, slow roll toward the floor.

  “Shit, what’s wrong?” Hamilton’s fingers flew over the controls. “You should have been able to see what kind of clothes the guy was wearing. I know it’ll work this time.”

  The monitor went black—and came back exactly the same.

  Shit, shit, shit. Jake’s intuition gave him a mule kick.

  “Let me try.” He dropped into the seat next to Hamilton.

  “Yeah, why not? Maybe it’s some kind of weird boundary condition, and you’ll luck out with your selection.” Hamilton gave a frustrated shrug and surrendered the keyboard and joystick.

  Jake shook out his hands, then accepted the new controls. His intuition screamed that he must hold the joystick just so. Okay, he could accept that; he’d listened to his instincts for years as a homicide cop.

  Next step, mark a patch of image.

  Listen to your intuition, man. It’s driving the boat now.

  He half-closed his eyes until the monitor was a blur and clicked when the joystick sang under his hand.

  “You’re good with that thing,” Hamilton said grudgingly. “Have you used one before?”

  Jake shrugged in what he hoped was a competent fashion and accepted the commit option. If only this worked . . .

  The monitor blinked. Something felt right up there, as if a bad guy’s picture was coming to life.

  Jake focused intently on it, willing the computer to bring the bastard forward.

  The screen shimmered again—and suddenly a blinding headache smashed into Jake. He fell back into his chair and instinctively threw an arm up to protect his eyes.

  The big monitor blinked once, twice, then settled into the same indistinguishable vision of two tiny people beside two boxy ca
rs.

  Jake wrapped his arms around his stomach and willed himself not to puke his guts out. His intuition hadn’t yelled at him so loudly since he’d charged into a drug lord’s hideout to serve an arrest warrant.

  Fisher stared at him, then got up to pour a fresh cup of coffee, the beat cop’s answer to every problem.

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with our software,” Hamilton said, sounding totally unconvinced.

  “Maybe,” echoed Murphy. “If you give us a copy of the tape, I’ll have our labs work on it.”

  Jake levered himself carefully out of the chair and accepted the hot beverage from Fisher.

  He had no idea how to tell Murphy their software wouldn’t work any better on this tape than Hamilton’s had.

  The Viper hummed happily. Very satisfactory bank balances, calculated by his numerous computers, were reflected in his tall glass of beer.

  The only question now was where to put the extra money from that last job. Not Switzerland, of course; he already had enough in that boring place for three or four lush retirements. Perhaps Dubai, where the lengthy flight times were matched by a fluid acceptance of bribery.

  Or maybe someplace riskier, to make up for the last job’s utter boredom. Really, it had hardly been worth his time—except for the price tag.

  Big Ben’s chime sounded. Even after all these years and so many jobs, the Viper’s pulse kicked hard.

  He rubbed the glass of beer across his face to calm himself, savoring the cool chill. It was heaven, this flash of uncertainty at the very beginning, because it came so seldom.

  Then he pressed a single key on one very secure Macintosh and a single message popped up on the monitor.

  It was double-encoded, with the first code being the highest grade commercial code. The second code had been invented for Viper by a brilliant academic, who’d died immediately after assuring Viper even the U.S. military couldn’t easily crack his darling. Clients never directly received it, of course, only access to a Web site that encrypted their message.

  If he agreed to talk, an additional two-part code would be used, in which he had half of the key and the client held the other half.

  Nobody had ever complained. The Viper’s track record spoke for itself: one hundred percent satisfaction and complete discretion. He never blackmailed but he always demanded full payment—in advance.

  Incoming message from France, said the balloon.

  Well, now, what was going on over there these days that might interest him? It was probably well known he spent much of his time in the States these days.

  The Viper finished his beer, poured a fresh glass, and brought up the dialogue screen.

  Three comrades—Comrades? How quaint—need rescue from U.S. government.

  A few keystrokes banished his beloved bank accounts for the moment and brought up the latest news.

  A-ha! Headlines screamed about terrorists arrested abroad and extradited back to the United States. The countries involved made Viper’s breath quicken.

  What do you want me to do? he asked bluntly. It never paid to beat around the bush. Most clients were stupidly terrified that his conversations might be tapped.

  Rescue.

  The money involved immediately made his cock harden.

  Very expensive, he warned reluctantly, and not my specialty. It may not be possible. He had to maintain his reputation for telling clients the truth, even if it meant the hit would go elsewhere.

  If not rescue, then death. They must not talk.

  Viper could almost see the unhappy shrug at the other end.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and willed his cock to go back down. He needed at least some self-control during this type of negotiations.

  Then he named a sum.

  No, not possible!

  Find somebody else.

  There was a long silence during which the line stayed open.

  Viper unzipped his fly and began to slowly stroke himself. Difficult negotiations were always the most enjoyable, especially when the other side started to waver.

  Very well. We pay your price, the new client said sullenly.

  Deposit the money here. He gave them the account number and name of the Swiss bank he used for this purpose, one where he never allowed funds to linger more than a day or two. I will tell you later where to pick up your comrades.

  Viper fondled his balls, fat and aching the way his coffers would be in a few days. Christ, how he loved this part of negotiations.

  Fifty percent bonus if they’re alive, the client added abruptly.

  Fifty percent? Why, that would be—His hips slammed forward in his chair, the golden sum tantalizing as any orgasm.

  It’s a deal, he typed, his fingers more unsteady on the keyboard than they’d ever been on a rifle.

  Agreed. His new client vanished.

  Fifty percent.

  Viper pumped his cock, heat rising hot and fast, searing his brain.

  Fifty fucking percent bonus!

  He shot his load into his hand, numbers blasting his brain into the stratosphere like an artillery bombardment.

  He came to, with his head thrown back and his trousers somewhere around his knees. He didn’t care, not with a fifty-fucking-percent bonus on the way.

  The news photo blinked at him and sanity stirred.

  The new job would be a bitch, to say the least. Going up against the FBI, U.S. marshals, and every cop in Virginia would make a lesser talent back off.

  But he could do it.

  He’d need help. Not too many hired hands, of course. Those idiots talked, even when they were good enough to do what they were told without asking questions.

  Gear, too, starting with the best guns.

  And maybe that set of license plates Mr. Big had given him. He’d sworn everyone seeing a vehicle wearing those plates would think it was a real cop car.

  It worked, too. Viper would have sworn somebody’d notice a red sports car beside a cop making a traffic arrest. But nobody had put out an APB on the Mustang, even after that gal’s mother groveled all over TV. He’d gotten away free and clear, just like Mr. Big promised.

  Viper smiled, shiny and bright like the money about to flow into his account.

  He’d use those plates again, despite Mr. Big’s warnings about not reusing his gear for anybody else. After all, what Mr. Big didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Astrid took another long, disbelieving look at the kitchen table. A midnight supper’s leftovers should not turn her heart into taffy and make her dive into dangerous conversational waters.

  Dinner hadn’t even been fancy, just pizza. Okay, he’d provided a cheese pizza specifically for her, plus a green salad. None of her family’s menfolk had ever produced anything edible at mealtime; they’d always simply showed up, expecting to be fed. They thought about women only if their stomachs weren’t satisfied and then dealt out hell.

  All her old caution, etched deeper into her bones at Oslo, yelled at her not be anywhere near Jake Hammond. But the hope in his voice when he mentioned a possible clue had made her beg off an evening planning session with a half dozen other Shadow Guard members. Maybe if he had a good lead, she could bow out of his life for good—an unfortunately dismaying prospect.

  Distracted brown eyes set amid harsh crows’-feet lured her gaze and set her fingers itching to caress.

  Folly, pure folly. Friendship with him was acceptable, especially through cyberspace. A vibrant intellectual discussion was acceptable, albeit risky. But a repeat of their highly combustible physical relationship, especially when she didn’t have any of the protective wards carried by a kubri recruiter? Intolerable.

  He peeled another pepperoni slice off the cold crust, rolled it into a tube, and nibbled on the crimson-striped meat. A glass of imported lager glinted pale gold against the kitchen’s brick wall.

  What had exhausted a kubri enough to ignore an excellent beer for ten minutes and barely nibble his pizza? She’d infused him wi
th a Niagara Falls of magick two days ago. It should have lasted him for at least a month.

  She ignored her silk cashmere cardigan’s delicate sleeves and leaned her elbows on the table to study him carefully. Could he still be starved for magick? Horrifying thought, for a kubri with his potential.

  Or was it worse to consider his investigation might face wards strong enough to drain his magick, even without face-to-face contact?

  She grimaced internally. Wiping out his magick should be impossible. Only Shadow Guards and their equivalents from other countries were powerful enough to work at a distance. No, it was far more likely Jake was starved for magickal attention. She could give him that.

  She restarted the conversation at its ostensible purpose—Jake’s current investigation.

  “Do you think the picture’s the real deal? An actual shot of the killer?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Or maybe not.” He waggled his fingers at the food cooling between them. “Do you want any more of this?”

  “No, thank you. I’m already full.” She shook her head, rueful laughter lifting her mood. How many times had he stalled an Argos game for his so-called food of the gods?

  “Hey, I picked up some gelato, too,” he offered, the last two slices of a gourmet, meat lovers’ delight clutched in his big paw.

  “Gelato?” Despite her best Shadow Guard instincts, which urged a quick return to Georgetown, she rechecked the restaurant’s name. Hmm, not desserts to quickly turn down.

  “Interested?” A fine rasp roughened his drawl.

  She met his dark eyes and, for the first time, allowed herself to drop her guard. She considered him directly, sahir to kubri.

  Exhaustion muddied his skin and stubbornness tightened his jaw. His T-shirt had the well-worn aura of a knight’s undergarment, which had been chafed far too often in a mix of armor and sweat. Yet his last feeble attempt at a joke still lifted the corners of his mouth.