No One Left to Tell

  Grayson pointed at Lisa. “And you stay the hell out of this.”

  Lisa didn’t back down. “Pull that stick out of your ass. What is wrong with you?”

  “What is wrong is that now half the city has seen that.” He gestured at the screen.

  The little thrill Paige had felt at being touched so tenderly was long gone. His cheeks were red, his eyes blazing. He was furious. And who can blame him? He’d saved her life and what did he get? A demanding female wanting to play Sherlock and an asshole reporter who’d just splashed his face all over the TV.

  He’d been dignified this morning. Now he was tabloid fodder. Just like me.

  She couldn’t blame him for being angry. If I were him, I’d wish I’d never met me.

  “I thought it was sweet,” Holly declared, but her lip quivered. “You’re a hero.”

  Grayson went to the table and hugged Holly to him, not caring that she was covered in flour. “That you think so means a lot to me. What are you making?”

  Holly settled against his side. “Fondant. For the cake Brian’s making.”

  “It’ll be delicious.” Laying his head against Holly’s, he closed his eyes and Paige watched him grow calmer. Eyes still closed, he stretched out his other arm for Lisa and she joined the hug without hesitation, the three of them standing together. A unit. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Lisa murmured back. “But I’m not sure for what.”

  A wave of longing smacked Paige as she watched, a lump rising in her throat that she had to swallow hard to dislodge. Because she understood that the way he’d touched her face was not special or unique. It was just his way. His family’s way.

  Quietly she backed out of the kitchen, her eyes stinging. I need to get out of here. But she didn’t have her car. Had she been in Minneapolis, she could have had any one of ten friends pick her up in as many minutes. But here, life was a little different. She’d made a few friends, like Clay and Alyssa, but they weren’t the friends she suddenly missed so much her chest ached. They certainly weren’t family.

  She all but ran back to the Gingerbread House, shoved the trial transcript into her backpack. Peabody sat up, ready for her command.

  I will not cry. Not here. “How am I going to get you home?”

  No cab in town would transport a ninety-pound dog and it was miles to the office where she’d left her truck. Too far to walk, especially as fatigue was beginning to pull at her mind. She’d have to ask Grayson to give her a lift. Then I’ll drive to Delgado’s.

  Peabody came to attention, staring at the doorway. She didn’t have to look up to know Grayson was standing there. She could feel him watching her.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  Paige kept her eyes down. “I’ve had a long day. I was hoping you could drive me to my office so I can get my truck. I want to go home, take a hot bath, and call it a night.”

  Hearing his footsteps cross the floor, she braced herself. Still she shivered when he cupped her cheek in his palm and tugged until she looked up. His eyes were very green in this light. And still angry. But his hand was as gentle as his tone when he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Paige. You’ve had a hell of a day.”

  Hot tears filled her eyes and she blinked, sending them down her cheeks as she turned her face away. After a moment’s hesitation he threaded his fingers through her hair, making her shiver again.

  His palm was warm against her skull and it was then she realized just how long it had been since she’d been touched. The tears started anew. “I don’t cry, it’s—”

  He’d pulled her against him, muffling her words. The hand in her hair urged her head to rest against him while his other hand stroked the hair down her back. “It’s okay.”

  Just for a minute. He felt so good. For a minute she let herself breathe him in. And cry. And pretend that this day had never happened, that she hadn’t seen a woman murdered before her eyes. That she hadn’t been nearly killed herself. That she’d never seen Elena’s pictures. That her throat didn’t hurt like a bitch.

  That this man stroking her hair so gently was hers to keep. That he wasn’t just being kind to her out of duty or, even worse, pity. And that she couldn’t still feel the anger roiling beneath his outward calm.

  The crying jag passed. “You have every right to be angry,” she whispered, “and I don’t have any right to ask for more help. I’ll go home.”

  He kept stroking her hair. “After you go see Jorge Delgado.”

  She sighed. “Yes.”

  “I told you that I’d take you. Get your things. We’ll leave right now.”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?” he asked, exasperated.

  Her throat was closing again. “Because you’re mad at me and I don’t like that.”

  He leaned back so that she could see his face. “I’m mad, but not at you, Paige. You didn’t ask for any of this. I’m mad at that sonofabitch Radcliffe because he’s getting ratings at your expense. I’m mad that anyone involved in this has already figured out that you came to me for help. If they weren’t sure if you knew anything, they sure as hell will be now.” He swiped at her cheek with his thumb. “But I’m not mad at you. Okay?”

  That he’d avoided the topic of his mother’s glee and his own horror hadn’t escaped her notice, and it hurt. Still she nodded. “Okay.”

  “I need to bring in the police. Now that I’ve seen the pictures, I have a responsibility to do the right thing.”

  She closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding again. “I know. But it doesn’t make me any less terrified.”

  “I told Morton and Bashears that Elena came to see me last week asking for a new trial. I told them this morning, as soon as I confirmed she was the victim.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was comforted by that or not. “So they really did know. Will you give them the copies of the pictures I made for you?”

  “No.”

  She blinked up at him in surprise. “No?”

  “I’ve got a friend, another homicide detective. I’m going to give them to her. Her name is Stevie Mazzetti and I trust her with my life.”

  “That’s very good,” Paige said slowly. “But I need to trust her with mine.”

  “I know. She wasn’t involved in the Muñoz investigation. She hadn’t even heard about it until today. She was on bereavement leave when Crystal was killed, followed by maternity leave. She was out for several months and not watching the news.”

  That Paige hadn’t expected. “How can you know she wasn’t watching the news?”

  “Her husband and five-year-old son were murdered in a robbery when Stevie was pregnant. She focused on keeping her baby and her sanity. She refused to watch the news out of self-protection. Her husband and I worked together. He was a damn good prosecutor. He was also my friend. I’ve known Stevie for years. She’ll do the right thing.”

  Paige remembered what Clay had said that morning and some of her panic quieted. Mazzetti had investigated the murder of Clay’s former partner and was the cop he thought they might trust. “I always knew you’d have to tell someone. Okay. Do it.”

  Something moved in his eyes. “I’ll call her on the way. Summon your hound.”

  She hiccuped a surprised laugh. “Summon my hound?”

  He shrugged. “I read too many detective stories, too.”

  Tuesday, April 5, 6:15 p.m.

  Silas stepped back from the mirror, barely able to see his own reflection through the blood. His stomach was churning and it took every last ounce of control not to heave its contents all over the small bathroom with its Dora the Explorer wallpaper.

  He hadn’t wanted to do this murder, either. Jorge Delgado had heeded every last warning. Until today. He’d come back to the neighborhood.

  Silas wasn’t sure why Delgado had come back. Maybe to make sure Sandoval was really dead. But Silas didn’t think so. Were it me, I would have run when I heard Sandoval was
dead. And, were it him, Silas wouldn’t have been able to leave without holding his daughter one last time. He hoped Delgado had gotten that last hug.

  Tina Delgado and the child hadn’t been home when he’d killed Jorge. He’d waited until they’d left the house before slipping in the back. He was so glad they’d gone. If they hadn’t… he didn’t want to think of it. Didn’t want to consider the choice he would have had to make. He couldn’t have killed Jorge and left his family alive to tell.

  Because if they hadn’t left, he would have made the choice. His child came first.

  Silas looked down at his double-gloved hands, latex covering the leather. The tip of his forefinger was red. The message in the mirror would be clear enough.

  He slipped out the kitchen door to the alley. No one was out, no one was watching. It was raining again and everyone was inside. He pulled his hood up, covering his head and shrouding his face. No one would be able to identify him even if they did see him.

  Pausing at the Dumpster two blocks down, he tossed the gun he’d just used. The Dumpster was the closest to the Muñoz family home. The gun was untraceable to him. He threw the latex gloves down the sewer. They’d wash out to the river by morning.

  Silas drove away as if he hadn’t just ended the life of a man who had done nothing more than be in the wrong place sitting next to the wrong guy. At the worst of wrong times. Grimly he made a call on his work cell.

  “It’s done,” Silas said.

  “Good to hear. And the wife and kid?”

  “They were gone by the time I got there.”

  “Hmm.”

  Silas held his breath, hoping there would be no kill order on Tina Delgado and the child. Please, no. I can’t. But he knew that he could. If he had to.

  “I suppose that’s just as well. That would have been too messy.”

  Silas let out a careful breath, light-headed from relief. “Exactly.”

  “Did you search his room at the boardinghouse?”

  “Yes. I was there all day, waiting for him. He wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  “Then it’s a good thing he got interviewed. We might have missed him.” The meaning of the silky words was clear—you nearly failed again. “I have another job.”

  “No,” Silas gritted, then bit his tongue, regretting the outburst. “Who?”

  “An MMA fighter. Roscoe ‘Jesse’ James. He’s got a fight tonight. You may want to follow him to the bar afterward. It’s where he goes to chill.”

  “What should I do with him?”

  “Kill him. And make sure he’s never found. You know, the usual.”

  Silas knew. The shootings of Elena and Jorge were unique. Normally his jobs were much less public. And less frequent.

  Silas didn’t ask why James had to die. He’d seen the video of the botched attack on Paige Holden while he’d waited in Delgado’s rented room. Her attacker had been big and muscled, and fought like a pro. A secret part of him was thrilled she’d gotten away.

  That Silas had been tasked with the job of killing the man who’d botched her hit was also a message. He hadn’t been trusted with the parking garage assignment. Because he’d failed to kill her this morning when he’d had her in his sights.

  When a kid with a camcorder also had her in his sights. Silas had watched that video while waiting for Delgado as well, troubled to see that the tape had been spliced. He needed to know what was contained in those missing minutes. He needed to know if the kid who’d taken the video had captured his face in any capacity. With all the facial-recognition software, even the slightest glimpse might be enough to ID him.

  His source in BPD said that everyone knew who’d taken the video—a kid named Logan Booker who lived in the unit above the Holden woman. But both Logan and Phin Radcliffe were refusing to give the cops the uncut version without a warrant.

  Silas needed to see that uncut tape. Just for my own peace of mind. But first he had another job to do. Roscoe “Jesse” James would learn the penalty of failure tonight. And in teaching it, so will I.

  Seven

  Tuesday, April 5, 6:20 p.m.

  Grayson checked his rearview mirror yet again. There appeared to be no one following them, but it was hard to tell in the dark and in the rain that had started up again while they’d been at Lisa’s. The interior of his car was silent except for the swishing of his wiper blades and the panting of the dog taking up most of his backseat.

  Paige had fallen asleep minutes into the drive, head tucked against her shoulder. But even in sleep her brows were knit. Grayson wanted to smooth the worry away.

  He figured they’d achieve little from their trip. Delgado wouldn’t talk. Not unless he had one hell of a heavy conscience. In Grayson’s experience, people rarely confessed secrets they’d kept for years. Especially when protecting someone else.

  They were a few miles away from Delgado’s house when Grayson’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He’d put in a call to Stevie half an hour ago, but got her voice mail. He tapped his hands-free earpiece. “This is Smith,” he said softly, so he didn’t wake Paige.

  “I know.”

  Grayson swallowed the sigh. Here we go. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Why are we whispering?” his mother whispered loudly.

  “Because I’m in the car and my passenger is asleep.”

  “Your passenger is photogenic. That you are also goes without saying. Of course.”

  “Of course. So…” He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just remember that you asked,” she said tartly. “When will I meet your passenger? She has good taste in clothes. I loved her red coat. Very chic.”

  “Until it got soaked with her blood,” he said grimly.

  “There was that,” his mother acknowledged. “Are you in danger, Grayson?”

  “No. But she is.”

  “Then you’ll keep her safe.” It was a statement of fact. Of faith.

  His mother had kept him safe, guarding their secrets, standing between him and those who would have literally torn him apart. A lioness protecting her cub, she fiercely defied anyone who had threatened him. “I learned from the best.”

  “You always know what to say,” she murmured. “Your passenger is very lucky.”

  He glanced back at the dog whose gaze never left Paige’s face. He stands between me and the world. That her guardian was a dog and not a person who loved her made him sad. Somehow he knew she’d never had a mother like his. “I think you’d like her.”

  “I plan on finding out. You promised me dinner tomorrow. I have reservations at Giuseppe’s. For three. Because I had intended to invite Carly.”

  Grayson winced. He and Carly hadn’t been together in months. “About her—”

  “Except you hadn’t called me as of lunch,” his mother interrupted. “So I called her.”

  His heart sank. “You called Carly.”

  “And wasn’t I surprised to learn that you and she had broken up? Months ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me, son?”

  He heard the hurt in her voice. “Of course I was. I just couldn’t find the right time.” It sounded lame, even to him.

  “Why did you break up?” she asked. “I thought things were getting serious.”

  He was certain Carly had thought so. He shifted, uncomfortable. “Mom.”

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” she said sharply. “I asked Carly myself.”

  He sat up straighter, his neck growing warm. “You had no right.”

  “She said she left you because you were always working. That she didn’t want to play second fiddle to your job.”

  “It was true.” It was his MO. Make them hate him for neglect before they discovered the truth. They always left, taking their dignity with them. It was the least he could do.

  “It’s been true for every woman you’ve ever known,” she pushed.

  “Mom,” he warned her. “This isn’t your business.”

  “You didn’t t
ell her, did you? Carly. You didn’t tell her.”

  “Of course I didn’t tell her,” he said wearily.

  “She was a nice woman and you pushed her away, just like all the others.”

  “It was for the best.”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped, startling him. “You’ve more than proven yourself not to be him. He can’t hurt you. Any woman who can’t accept who you are doesn’t deserve you, but you do them a disservice by not giving them a chance to make the right choice.”

  “I can’t tell them because I can’t risk them telling,” he said quietly.

  “So what if they do? Nobody’s coming after you. Not anymore.”

  “It has nothing to do with that.” Even though it did.

  “You think people will think less of you. That they’ll think you’re like him, but nobody will. Nobody except yourself. How long will you go on paying for someone else’s sins?”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

  Finally she sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell at you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. You needed to hear the words, but not the tone. I look back and wonder what might have happened if I’d never made us run. Never made you afraid.”

  We’d be dead, he thought. “I know you want what you think is best for me.”

  “What I want is for you to have a family. Which you’ll never allow yourself to have.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom” was all he could say.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just bring your Good Samaritan to meet me.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck lifted in alarm. “Promise me you won’t tell her.”

  “I promise. Eight o’clock tomorrow night. Wear a tie.”

  “All right,” he said, relaxing a little. But only a little. His mother was a woman on a thinly veiled mission—to have him settled sometime this decade. He’d spent a lifetime making her proud, proving he was a good man and not… his father. Not disappointing her. But in this, she would be disappointed.

  He looked at Paige, guilt already eating at him. He wanted her. He’d wanted her from the minute he’d seen her jump from the path of a bullet-riddled minivan, then run back to check on the driver.