Deadly Force Page 17

  Then Claire’s face came on the screen. It was a good picture. The camera had caught the life in her eyes, the glow of her skin, the sparkle of her smile. Sam had the craziest inclination to stand on his chair, pound his chest and proclaim to the room that this is my woman.

  Except that would cause Claire to run out onto the stage, grab the microphone and set the record straight.

  The screen changed and it was her design. The product was a lawnmower and several blades of grass were discussing the cut in a manner similar to how a woman might discuss her experience at the salon. It was fresh and funny and different than anything he’d ever seen.

  He wasn’t any great judge of the finer points of an advertising campaign, but he knew what he liked and he thought Mission’s and Claire’s were the best.

  The man on the stage waved his arm. “Let’s have a big round of applause to welcome our six finalists to the stage.” He announced the first woman’s name.

  In she walked. She shook hands with the emcee and took a spot in the first of six circles that had been taped to the stage.

  The next finalist was announced and the routine repeated. She took her spot.

  It bore a very creepy resemblance to the beauty pageants that he’d seen when he was in junior high and thought it was cool to look at the girls in their swimsuits. He hoped that Claire wasn’t going to have to answer a question about how she would make the world a better place.

  Finalist three and four were announced. Then, the emcee called for Mission.

  After twenty seconds, the crowd started getting restless. Sam lifted his hand and spoke softly into the microphone that was clipped to his shirtsleeve. “Status, Cruz?”

  “No activity. What’s going on?”

  “Mission is AWOL.”

  The emcee leaned closer to the microphone and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Pete Mission.”

  Still nothing.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  The emcee flipped his paper over. “Claire Fontaine,” he said.

  There wasn’t even a rustle behind the curtain.

  They were both missing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam moved fast. He vaulted up onto the stage, ignoring the other startled contestants. From behind him, he heard one of the officers in the back yell, “Police. Stay in your seats. I repeat, stay in your seats.”

  He pushed through the heavy curtains into the backstage area. It was dimly lit and empty. He could feel adrenaline whipping through his body and he fought to calm himself down enough to function. Claire’s life might depend upon it.

  He saw the door on the right that led to the hallway where Cruz still waited. They hadn’t gone that direction.

  He turned left. It wasn’t a large space—there was no place to hide. But then he saw the door. It was really a half door, just wide enough to slip inside. There was no knob, just a spike hammered into the middle of it. Costumes was scrawled across it in red paint.

  He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster, opened the door and stuck his head around the corner. It was jammed with racks of long dresses on both sides, leaving only a small aisle in the middle.

  Claire and Mission were standing at the far end of the room, no more than twelve feet from him. Claire’s good arm was wrapped across her body, with the palm resting on her sling. Her lips were pressed together, as if she was very angry. But she didn’t look hurt.

  Mission had his hands in his pockets and his face was red. He looked miserable.

  “Claire?” Sam asked.

  “I’m okay, Sam,” she said, looking at his gun.

  He kept it pointed at Mission. With his other hand, he motioned for her to come to him. When she started toward him, he watched for Mission to make some move to yank her back. But he did nothing.

  When Claire got close, he wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her in tight. He sucked in a deep breath, pulling her scent into his lungs. Then he did it again and finally started to feel settled. He lifted his arm and spoke into the wire. “I found both of them. No injuries to report.” He brushed his lips across Claire’s forehead. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Pete had something he needed to tell me,” she said.

  “And he had to tell you right now?” Sam asked. “There are two hundred people out there waiting for you.”

  She pressed her lips together. “He stole my design,” she said, her tone flat. “I had two ideas and I worked up both of them. In the end, I had to pick one, not realizing that he’d gotten keys from his friend, the super, and broken into my apartment. He wasn’t able to access my computer files because I had them password-protected. He saw the hard copies and that was enough for him to copy the idea.”

  Sam looked at Mission. “You lazy, dishonest son-of-a—”

  “I already called him worse,” Claire admitted, smiling for the first time. “He had to tell me before I walked out on stage and realized the truth. He didn’t trust that I wouldn’t blurt something out and the whole world would know.”

  “You didn’t think this through, did you?” Sam asked Mission.

  Mission shook his head. “I didn’t expect to final. I’ve entered for over ten years and never been a finalist. I tried to get out of the contest, but Victor wouldn’t hear of it. The well was dry. I just needed a little spark.”

  Sam shook his head and turned toward Claire. “What happens now?”

  “Pete and I are going to take our spots on the stage. We’re going to get through this night without creating any bigger scene. If Pete wins, he’s going to donate the award to charity. Right, Pete?”

  Mission nodded.

  The urge to beat Mission into a bloody pulp for giving Claire even one moment of distress was pulsating through his veins. The bastard had entered her apartment without permission, had stolen her work, had violated her trust. He needed to pay.

  But then Claire turned to him and softly said, “Please, Sam, let me just get through this.”

  “What’s the story you’re both going to tell?” Sam asked. “People are going to want to know what caused the delay.”

  “All we need to say is that Pete wasn’t feeling well. Faint, really. Right, Pete?”

  He nodded, looking miserable.

  “Are you going to tell anybody the truth?”

  Mission lifted his head. “I’ll tell Victor tomorrow.”

  At least the jerk was taking some accountability. “Okay, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Sam said. He pulled Claire aside and motioned for Mission to precede them out of the narrow room.

  Pete caught the emcee’s attention. The man hid his annoyance at the delay fairly well, and he got the crowd quieted down. He announced Mission and Pete walked out to his designated circle.

  Sam pulled Claire to him and kissed her. It was fast and not nearly enough, but he could not let her walk away without tasting her. “I was scared,” he admitted.

  She smiled at him. “I didn’t think anything shook Sam Vernelli.”

  Losing her wouldn’t just shake him. It would destroy him.

  “Claire Fontaine,” the emcee announced.

  He pulled his arm away. “Go,” he said. “They’re fools if they don’t pick your design to win.”

  Claire walked onto the stage, took her spot and within minutes, the advertising association proved how smart they were when they announced that Claire was the winner.

  The other finalists congratulated her, the emcee handed Claire a check and Claire stepped up to the microphone.

  She handled it like a pro. She thanked the association and thanked Victor and her coworkers for the guidance and mentoring that they’d given to her. Then she almost brought him to his knees when she turned slightly, made eye contact with him and said, “It’s especially wonderful to have people who are important to me here tonight to share this honor.”

  He was important to her.

  That was good, ’cause he loved her.

  Had probably known it for a while, but tonight, when
the possibility loomed that she was hurt or missing, he could no longer deny it.

  * * *

  SAM TOOK CLAIRE OUT for a late dinner. They ordered steak and lobster and a bottle of expensive wine. “It’s on me,” she said, laughing. “I really can’t believe it.” She picked up her cell phone, which was buzzing. “It’s a text from Nadine. I sent her one letting her know that I won.”

  “What does it say?” he asked, leaning to read it.

  “Just ‘congratulations’,” she said, throwing her phone into her small evening bag.

  “What are you going to do with all of it, moneybags?” Sam asked. “Bury it in the backyard?”

  “I don’t have a backyard, but I don’t intend to carry it around. I’ll take it to the bank tomorrow. It’s nice knowing I’ve got a little breathing room. I’ll sleep better now.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Not that I haven’t slept pretty good the last several nights.”

  They hadn’t done all that much sleeping. “Me, too,” he said. “Although I’d sleep better if we’d been able to find the connection between you and Sandy Bird.”

  “I know. Maybe there is no connection. The burglary. Sandy Bird. The horrible phone message. That stupid note at work. Maybe they were all just a series of random events.”

  “I don’t think so. Don’t let your guard down. Stay watchful.”

  She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, “How about you watch me. I’m going to...”

  He listened. And his heart rate sped up. He signaled for the bill. “Tell me again,” he said.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Sam waited outside his house for Cruz. He’d asked his partner for a ride to work after Tom Ames had asked to borrow his SUV to drive his mother to see her parents. The young man said he wasn’t sure his mother’s old car would make it.

  Sam was happy enough to loan the vehicle. He owed Tom. Detectives were required to use squad cars during the day. He and Cruz usually drove separately to the pickup lot, but he’d called Cruz earlier that morning and asked him to swing by.

  Cruz being Cruz was ten minutes late. Sam was just about to call him on his cell phone when his friend pulled up in his gray Toyota. Sam opened the door and had to pick up a to-go container off the seat before he could sit down.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, tossing it over his shoulder.

  Cruz drove with one hand and patted his stomach with the other. “Biscuits and gravy, topped with sunny-side up eggs.”

  Sam frowned at his partner. “Have you had your cholesterol checked lately?”

  Cruz kept his eyes on the road. “It’s just numbers.”

  “Numbers that will kill you.”

  Cruz sighed. “Let me know when we’re done with today’s public service announcement.”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  Finally, Cruz turned toward him. “I got a call from Franco this morning. He’s been asking around about pawnshop girl and he said she’s dropped off the face of the earth. Some of his friends are real disappointed because she sold good drugs at a reasonable price.”

  Sam clenched his fists so tight that his fingers hurt. “Electronics are stolen and then pawned by someone who deals. Then a nice suburban woman randomly picks the same apartment to break into and threatens to kill the occupants. Then Claire gets a call from some idiot where the man clearly knows information about a confidential police investigation. Then there’s the note Claire gets at work. No wonder we can’t make any progress. None of it makes any sense.”

  “Maybe we’re adding two and two together and coming up with five,” Cruz said.

  “This isn’t algebra,” Sam said, barely able to keep his temper.

  Cruz looked over and studied him. “Maybe not, Sam. But it is a puzzle and it’s our job to put the pieces together.”

  “I know what my job is.” He stared out the window, seeing but not really seeing the passing streets. Everywhere he looked, people walked and talked on their cell phones and sipped big cups of coffee. As if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  He watched two young punks, neither a day over sixteen, saunter up the street, hands in their jacket pockets. The two of them went into the coffee shop on the corner.

  Hell. What kind of worries could they have if they could afford a four-dollar cup of coffee?

  He and Cruz were almost past the shop, almost past the big front window when he saw it. If he hadn’t been looking, if the sun hadn’t been shining just right through the plate glass, he’d have never seen the man behind the counter, his hands in the air, or the boy-turned-perp, his arm waving wildly around, a gun in his hand.

  “Stop.” He pointed toward the curb with one hand, reached automatically for the radio, and came up empty. He yanked his cell phone out of his suit coat pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

  When the phone was answered he didn’t waste any time. “This is Detective Sam Vernelli, Area 5, Violent Crimes. We’ve got an armed robbery in progress at the Tasty Mill—it’s a coffee shop at the corner of Houston and Applewood. My partner and I are going in. We need backup, no lights or sirens. No pass-by.” He didn’t want the creeps looking up, seeing a blue-and-white go by and freaking out. He waited just long enough for the operator to read back the location and he hung up.

  Cruz pulled into an empty space and they were out of the car and moving fast. They stayed close to the building. Sam knew that even if one of the perps was doing lookout, he wouldn’t be able to see them unless he stuck his head out the door. “I’ll take the back,” Cruz said. “I’ve been in this place. Door opens into a hallway with a couple of restrooms. Right past them is the dining room. Give me forty seconds,” Cruz said and started running for the back door.

  Sam edged forward, his back against the brick wall. Counting. When he got to thirty-five, he raised his gun. At thirty-eight, he swung his body around. At forty, he was going through the door.

  Cruz exploded from the back at exactly the same time. “Police. Drop your weapons,” Sam yelled. “Now!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Hispanic boy on the right, looking like he was about to piss his pants, let his gun fall to the hardwood floor. Sam thought it was a damn miracle that it didn’t go off. The Caucasian kid, maybe a year or two older, kept his gun pointed at the store clerk. His arm was shaking and sweat poured off his face.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Sam said. “Put your gun down. Now!”

  It was five long seconds before the kid did so.

  His gun leveled at the kids’ chests, Sam moved close enough to kick their weapons far out of reach.

  “Get on the floor,” Cruz ordered. “Get your face on the floor.”

  Both boys obeyed. Sam sucked in a breath. It had gone well.

  Then he heard a noise and he looked over his shoulder just in time to see a young woman in the corner, back by the napkins and spoons, point a gun at Cruz.

  The bullet hit Cruz’s upper thigh. His whole body jerked back and he stumbled into a stand-up rack of greeting cards, taking them with him when he fell to the ground.

  Sam swung his gun around to return fire, but the girl dropped her weapon, put her hand over her mouth and sank to her knees. Sam, his heart about to burst, kept his gun on the two young men at the front of the store while he circled behind her.

  Then there were cops pouring in the door. EMTs came next and they moved quickly to get a still-conscious Cruz into the waiting ambulance.

  Sam grabbed his partner’s hand as they wheeled him past. It scared the hell out of him when the man’s grip was weak. He’d lost so much blood. “Hang in there, Cruz,” he urged.

  “They. Keep. Getting. Younger,” Cruz said, his words coming in spurts.

  Cruz was right. The girl couldn’t have been much over fourteen. And she’d come this close to killing his partner.

  It could have been him.

  Next time it might be.

  “I’ll come as soon as I can,” Sam promised his friend as they loaded Cruz in the ambulance.

  �
��If I don’t make it,” Cruz said, his voice faint, “take care of Meg. Make sure she’s okay.”

  Sam nodded and slammed the doors of the ambulance shut. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Meg’s cell number. He’d memorized it years ago in the event something horrible like this ever happened. And when she answered, he quickly realized that she’d spent those same years preparing for just such a call. She was calm, decisive and said she would catch the next plane to Chicago.

  Then he called Claire. Didn’t stop to think why. Just knew that he needed to hear her voice. He told her what happened, assured her that he was okay and promised to call her with any news.

  Sam knew it would take a while to sort out the red tape. Police incidents where weapons were discharged, especially when the perps were minors, were getting front-page news coverage. Every detail would be under scrutiny.

  While neither he nor Cruz had discharged their own weapon, which would have required a roundtable meeting, a cop had been shot. Other cops took that real seriously. Sam knew he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d given his statement. He knew other detectives had been dispatched to the hospital to get Cruz’s story.

  He and Cruz wouldn’t be allowed to speak until that had happened. There could be no room for doubt at the conclusion of the investigation that statements had been given independently.

  The press would be all over this. They’d spin it and analyze it and radio talk-show hosts would pick up the story if it were a slow news day. Sam didn’t like it but he understood it. After all, he’d been close to being on the other side of the desk.

  When he finally got the free-to-go nod from his captain, he drove like a maniac to the hospital. Captain Morris had given him an update an hour earlier, had said that Cruz was getting patched up in the Emergency Room. Sam knew he wouldn’t rest until he actually saw Cruz.