Hard Evidence

  It was a printout of a photograph. Of her. Asleep and naked in the bathtub.

  "What the hell are you doing out here?"

  She whirled about to find Julian striding toward her, an angry expression on his face. Then she saw his hands. They were stained with blood.

  "I know how it happened. Wyatt got the drop on Taylor and fired a round into his gut from a trey-eight equipped with a silencer. But I want to know how it happened. Goddamn it! We had him—we had him—and somehow he escaped!"

  Tessa sat on her couch, hugging a pillow to her chest, while Julian shouted at Chief Irving over his cell phone. Anger rolled off him in dark waves, but she knew he blamed himself.

  While he'd been getting dressed, one of his men had been shot in the stomach by a .38 round that had penetrated Kevlar. Wyatt had apparently used a silencer, and no one had known anything was wrong until Julian had literally tripped over the officer's unconscious and bleeding body at the bottom of the back stairs. Julian had stopped to save the officer's life, and Wyatt had gotten away.

  It sickened Tessa to think a police officer lay in the hospital, almost killed for trying to keep her safe. It sickened her almost as much to think the bullet they'd pried from his intestines could just as easily have been fired at Julian. By comparison, the naked photograph of her seemed insignificant, harmless. And, yet, in some ways it was what shocked her the most.

  While she had lain asleep in the tub, this freak, John Wyatt, had crept up on her and taken her picture. He'd done more than that, of course, but it hadn't been until she'd seen the printout that she'd remembered hearing the click. In fact, it was probably the click that had awoken her enough to notice his breathing in the first place.

  When Julian had finished yelling at her for being in the hallway, he'd taken the printout, sealed it in a plastic bag, and sent it off as evidence with one of the responding officers.

  "This is his own doing," he'd said more to himself than to her, bloodstains on his jeans and T-shirt. "He was sent to watch you, but my guess is he's become obsessed. He's stalking you like a predator, trying to terrorize you before he moves in. He wants you to know he's coming. He wants you to be afraid." ■

  "Well," Tessa had said, feeling nauseated. "He should be happy. He succeeded."

  Who were these guys? What was this really about?

  Julian had spoken of Wyatt as if he worked for someone else.

  He was sent to watch you.

  He'd spoken of the man he'd thought was Maria Ruiz's killer in the same way.

  The man I believe pulled the trigger is already dead, face

  blown off point-blank with a forty-four Magnum, no doubt as punishment for leaving witnesses.

  Were Wyatt and the dead killer nothing but hired guns? Why would anyone hire killers to take out a sixteen-year-old girl? What sort of criminal would be heartless enough—and have enough money—to hire people for such violent crimes? A drug kingpin? An arms dealer? A crime boss? Was there really any chance that the shooting had been gang related as she'd initially thought?

  There's worse things than gangbangers on these streets.

  Who or what had Syko been thinking of when he'd told her this?

  In the kitchen, Julian was still arguing with Chief Irving. "I know he attacked one of your men, but if you put out a warrant, he'll be dead. He's now my best and surest path for closing this investigation quickly. If I can catch him, get what he knows from him… Fine. Do it your way. It will be my job to try to reach him before anyone else."

  Tessa's mind absorbed these words, puzzled through them, stuck on one phrase.

  I know he attacked one of your men.

  One of your men.

  Not one of our men or one of the men or one of my men. One of your men.

  What was going on here? It sounded to her like Julian was talking about bending the rules, playing light with Wyatt's civil liberties. Why were they keeping this case so tightly under wraps? They still hadn't even released Maria Ruiz's autopsy. And who was Julian Darcangelo, this mysterious man who had stepped out of the shadows to help her?

  It seemed almost unbelievable to her that a couple of hours ago the two of them had come within moments of having sex on her floor. Even though they hadn't finished the act, it was still the most amazing sexual experience she'd ever had. He'd made her feel like the center of a blazing universe, as if he'd been aware only of her, as if he'd felt what she'd felt* as if her pleasure had mattered more to him in that moment than anything else. And when the first sultry shock of climax had washed through her, she'd felt a surge of emotion that had been as undeniable as it was terrifying.

  She was falling in love with him.

  This was not part of the plan. She didn't want to fall in love with him. Or if she did, she wanted it to happen after he'd fallen in love with her—and shouted his feelings from the rooftops, bought the ring, and gotten down on one knee. She didn't want to be used again. She didn't want to take the risk only to find herself as alone as her mother had been.

  "She's shaken but safe for the moment," she heard Julian say. "We need to get her into witness protection sooner rather than later. I've got other things I need to be doing. I'm not a damned babysitter!"

  His words hit her in the stomach, and something inside her shattered like glass. Her body went cold, a sensation very much like pain settling behind her breastbone.

  She'd thought he'd stayed on her couch because he'd at least cared about what happened to her. He'd seemed so concerned. She hadn't realized he'd seen it as a burden. And what about the intimacy they'd shared earlier? Did that have anything to do with real feelings and desires, or had he just been trying to prove something again?

  "I'll take that as a challenge," he'd said.

  And she'd melted like butter.

  You have only yourself to blame, Tessa.

  Perilously close to tears, Tessa met him when he stepped out of the kitchen and handed him his leather jacket. "I'd like to thank you for all you've done to ensure my safety. You've risked your life for mine, and I won't forget that. But I'd like to ask you to leave now. I don't want or need a babysitter."

  Julian drove through Denver's darkened streets on his way to LoDo, the events of the night playing through his mind, his body tense. He glanced at the clock on his dash. Four a.m. The whole thing was his fucking fault. If he hadn't been distracted, he'd have been able to respond the moment he'd gotten the call. Instead, he'd lost precious minutes stuffing his dick back into his pants, retrieving Tessa's gun from the last place she'd misplaced it, and getting her out of harm's way. By the time he'd been armed and in position, Wyatt, who'd already shot Taylor and knew the cops were there, had stuck the picture to the door and fled. Julian had opened the door in time to see the bastard vanish down the stairwell and had chased after him, only to find Taylor lying half dead in a pool of his own blood. Bad fucking luck the bullet had gone through Taylor's vest. It happened.

  If Julian had opened the door sooner, if he'd gotten to Wyatt right away…

  Taylor would still be in the hospital with his belly ripped open and a tube in his nose, but Wyatt would be sitting in interrogation spilling his guts, perhaps even giving Julian that key bit of information he so desperately needed to close this case: where Burien was hiding.

  Damn it! Damn it to hell!

  Julian slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. He was furious with himself for letting Wyatt get away. He was angry Taylor had nearly been killed. And he was annoyed that Irving had gone official and gotten a warrant. It was as good as writing Wyatt's epitaph, and Julian wouldn't be able to use him once he was dead.

  But this wasn't about Wyatt. Not really.

  This was about Tessa. It was about five foot five of soft woman who'd come apart in his arms—and then tossed him out of her apartment. She'd overheard the "babysitting" comment he'd made to Irving, and she'd decided to take it the wrong way.

  How was she supposed to take it, you imbecile?

  Already on edge, Julian had i
gnored the hurt he'd seen in her eyes. "You want me to go? What happens if Wyatt or one of his buddies shows up, Goldilocks? Will you take him on with the revolver you never keep at hand?"

  "My safety is no longer your problem," she'd said, her chin high, her voice tight.

  "You've survived on pride in the past, Tessa, but this time it might get you killed."

  A part of him had wanted to explain. He'd been trying to make Irving understand that she needed more protection than he couid give her, that he needed to be out on the streets doing what he did best. But his mouth and temper had gotten ahead of his brain, and the words hadn't come out right. Instead of clarifying what he'd meant, he'd thrust his arms into his sleeves and told Tessa she was being stupid.

  "No, stupid was earlier tonight," she'd said, her voice ice. "But I do learn from my mistakes. Yes, I do learn."

  Then she'd shut the door in his face.

  Furious with her and with himself, Julian had walked away, leaving her alone in her apartment under the watch of a fresh plainclothes unit.

  All night as he'd trolled alleys, streets, and strip clubs looking for any sign of Wyatt, he'd told himself this little misunderstanding was for the best. He'd come terribly close to doing something tonight that he knew he shouldn't do. Another thirty seconds and he'd have been deep inside her. It would have been the most incredible fuck of his life, and he'd have come hard and fast. But then he'd have seen an even worse look of hurt in her eyes than the one he'd seen tonight, and he'd have had to live for the rest of his life knowing he'd caused it.

  He and Tessa might have compatible biochemistry—okay, combustible biochemistry—but they were as different as two people could be. She was classy, educated, sophisticated; he'd gotten his education on the street, capping it off with a GED and FBI training. She knew about books and art; he knew about guns and killing. She'd smoothed the edges off her rough childhood; he'd sharpened his and turned them into a weapon.

  He didn't have to ask to know she wanted marriage, a home, a few kids, while he wanted… what?

  To bust Burien? To spend the rest of his life in seedy hotel rooms, illegal massage parlors, and dark alleys, wondering who would fire the round that would finally bring him down? To spend his free time mingling body fluids with women for whom he felt nothing and who felt nothing for him?

  Hell of a life, Darcangelo.

  He turned onto Wynkoop heading toward Union Station, aggravation grinding at his gut.

  What was wrong with him? He'd never questioned his relationships with women before. Sex by itself had always been enough, the casual booty call a much better fit for his lifestyle than having a woman at home waiting for him, expecting things from him that he didn't know how to give. But now that life seemed somehow cold, empty, the thought of kissing some random woman, of tasting and stroking her, of putting himself inside her felt strangely… unappealing.

  This was insane. He just wanted Tessa so badly because he hadn't had her. That was all. She'd come, and he hadn't. It was just unfinished lust. Blue balls. Hormones. Nothing more.

  No, it was the scent of her that lingered on his skin beneath the reek of cigarettes and blood and strippers' cheap perfume. It was the sound she'd made when he'd first kissed her—a sexy, feminine sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. It was the look on her sweet face when she'd come—a look of surprise mixed with excruciating pleasure.

  He'd felt a savage sort of satisfaction at that moment, knowing she'd believed she wouldn't enjoy it, knowing without a doubt that she had. Whoever her previous lovers had been—and judging from her response there couldn't have been many—they couldn't have been worth much in bed. If Tessa hadn't enjoyed sex with them it certainly hadn't been her fault. She was one of the most responsive women Julian had ever met.

  His groin grew tight, and he felt himself getting hard.

  Who the hell do you think you're fooling ?

  He wanted Tessa. Not just a woman. Tessa.

  Which was precisely why he was going to stay far away from her. He wouldn't touch her again. He would keep his pants zipped and his hands to himself.

  He slid his truck into an alley a few blocks away from the train station. Then he checked his weapon, tried to block Tessa from his mind, and stepped out into the cool night.

  Alexi stared at the jail report, rage making his head explode and his vision spotty. "Get out! Get out—all of you!"

  He heard footsteps and closing doors, but his mind barely registered them.

  Zoryo was dead. The Tiger was gone. He'd killed himself, strangled himself to keep his secrets. He'd proved his loyalty with his death.

  Alexi crumpled the paper in his hand, slammed his closed fist down on his desk, an animal sound forcing itself way out of his throat. He stood, kicked his chair over, and tore his office apart, smashing glass, breaking wood, knocking books to the floor.

  But it wasn't enough. He wanted Darcangelo's blood, wanted to feel it run over his hands, wanted to taste and smell it. He wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer until he begged to be shot. He wanted to laugh in his face and stretch the unbearable torment into long, endless hours. He wanted to destroy him.

  Out of breath, his vision nearly gone, Alexi sat and felt in his top desk drawer for drugs that would make the migraine go away. He fumbled with the foil wrapping, popped a pill onto his tongue, and let it melt, the pain already excruciating.

  How had this happened? Darcangelo wasn't playing by the rules. Somehow he'd tracked Zoryo down, locked him up, and questioned him without anyone in Alexi's organization knowing. Zoryo had been dead for a week, and Alexi hadn't heard a thing. There'd been no warrant, no APB, no arrest report to alert him. Nor was there an autopsy report to tell him what had happened to his childhood friend. There was only this internal record from the jail, a detailed account written by the jail captain and buried among hundreds of others.

  He would miss his old friend terribly. No one could drink vodka like Zoryo. They'd known each other since the beginning, had come to America together. Though Alexi would be able to replace Zoryo in his organization—there were always men looking for the kind of opportunities Alexi offered—his friend was gone.

  If Darcangelo could pull off something like this with one of Alexi's key people, he was more of a threat than Alexi had realized.

  Alexi pressed a hand to his shattering skull, squeezed his eyes shut against the fluorescent light, and realized his fingers had gone numb. He stood, stumbled through the wreckage of his office to the light switch, flicked it off, then sank down on the sofa.

  Zoryo's death wasn't the only bad news Alexi had gotten tonight. That stupid fool, Johnny, had shot a cop and was now being hunted. The fool had stumbled into a stakeout Darcan-gelo had set up, shot his way free, and was now on the run. Alexi would have to get rid of him. He could not leave any loose threads for Darcangelo to pull.

  But what about Darcangelo? The bastard had no family, no friends to torment. His ties with his own agency were weak and frayed. The man lived alone, cared about nothing but his latest assignment. He hadn't taken a lover in three years.

  Then Alexi laughed. It seemed so simple.

  He squinted, turned his head, and picked up the photograph of the journalist that Johnny had given him. He couldn't see her through the sliver that remained of his vision, but that didn't matter. There'd been a reason he'd let her live, even if he hadn't known it himself at the time. He would plan carefully, make certain he did nothing to endanger himself. With Tessa Novak's help, he would destroy Julian Darcangelo, starting with the only thing the man cared about: his work. Then, when he had suffered enough, Burien would have him killed.

  Chapter 15

  Tessa's life no longer felt real. It didn't feel real as she lay awake all night, her thoughts veering from kisses to killers and back again. It didn't feel real as she drove a rental car to work sandwiched between two patrol cars. It didn't feel real when she arrived at the paper to find television news crews waiting in the lobby to interview her ab
out last night's attack and Denver's supposed gang crisis.

  "Ms. Novak, do you believe this is in any way connected with your coverage of Denver's street gangs?"

  As if drifting through a made-for-TV movie, Tessa deflected their questions by expressing her gratitude to the Denver Police Department and her concern for Officer Taylor, then let Sophie bustle her into the nearest elevator.

  "My God, Tessa, you look exhausted," Sophie said, looking more than a little worried. "I can't believe you came to work today."

  "Can you do me a favor?" Tessa reached into her purse, pulled out a five. "Can you get me a quadruple-shot vanilla latte?"

  "Sure." Sophie took the money. "But you are going to have to sleep eventually."

  'Tell that to the guys with the guns."

  Tessa found a half dozen messages on her voice mail, including another from her mother.

  "I saw on the news what happened, Tessa, and I'm awful scared for you. If you're in some kind of trouble, I want to help. If you need a place to hide out or some money, let me know. Please call just to let me know you're all right. You can reach me at—"

  Hide here! Hurry, Tessa Marie! Grandpa's drunk, and he's awful mad at you for spilling your cereal. I'll come get you when it's safe.

  The memory of crawling into the darkness beneath their mobile home, skinning her knees in the dirt, shot through her memory. Tessa had been five, her mother nineteen. It had been almost a ritual—hiding in the spidery dark, waiting for Mama to tell her it was safe. Her mother had stood between her and her grandfather, kept the old man from beating her, taking the blows herself.

  So your mother made a mistake, and you're ashamed of her.

  Yes, Tessa was ashamed of her.

  And for the first time in her life that bothered her.

  She deleted the message, her fingers hovering in indecision above the keypad for a moment before she dialed Chief Irving's direct line.

  She couldn't deal with her mother. Not yet. Not today.