Risky Redemption (Rogue Security Book 1), page 14
As soon as Jake recovered from the unnerving conversation with the Contractor, he dialed Becky Smelter’s number. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he needed to know she was all right. She’d been cautious with him at her door, but she’d be no match for a couple of goons wanting to make a point. How could he warn her without scaring her?
After ten rings, Jake disconnected and redialed. Another ten rings, and still nothing. No answering machine either, which didn’t surprise him. His palms were sweaty as he paced the room and dialed a third time. He glanced at his watch: 11:45 a.m.
“Crap,” he muttered.
What had she said about her plans? Lunch at the Senior Center and then something else at two. He slammed the cell phone on the table. It might be better if she was away from her house for a while. Unless she came home to find it occupied by the Land Rover guys. He debated driving to her house, but if she were there, she would have answered his calls.
Unless she couldn’t. He didn’t want to think about that possibility.
He pressed his palms against his temples and groaned. Had he convinced the Contractor that his activities today had been unrelated to finding the buyer? He scrunched his eyes tightly closed and replayed the conversation. Maybe by the end of it, the Contractor hadn’t cared what the hitman was up to. The Contractor just wanted out of the middle. He cringed. Or to make more money on a new contract with Jake Stone as the target. Bingo.
Aha. Bingo. Becky was playing bingo at two. How long did old people play bingo on a Thursday afternoon? He had no clue. He resolved to call her again at three and to not give up until he talked to her.
Until then, he’d listen to the recording of his visit and transfer it to his computer. Then he’d review Burke’s papers again. His interrogation of Becky had been cut short. If he had some new questions for her, they might mask the real reason for his call.
After ordering lunch, he got to work. He was so engrossed he almost missed the room service knock. With the Glock tucked in the back waistband of his pants, he peered through the peephole at the uniformed delivery boy. He quickly handed the guy a tip and took the tray instead of letting him inside.
Jake ate without tasting and pushed away the plate still half full of food. Reading about the rape killed his appetite.
He leaned low over the list of DNA tests, studying each entry. Burke had been right. The rapist had left semen everywhere, and none of it ever got a DNA match. Angela’s DNA had been matched from several samples, which wasn’t surprising. Jake frowned at one of the entries.
The sample had been taken from a red lace thong. Red lace thong? Why did that ring a bell?
The date of the test triggered his memory. That sample had been submitted two months after the rape. Jake thumbed through the papers until he found one dated the day of the submission.
According to the report, Angela had called Burke to inform him she had discovered a red lace thong underneath her nightstand. She swore it wasn’t her underwear. Burke had bagged the evidence at her house and submitted it immediately. The DNA test showed the thong contained Angela’s vaginal fluid and the rapist’s semen. According to Burke, the results had devastated Angela. Burke hadn’t speculated on the source of the thong, apparently dismissing the ownership issue as simply a result of the victim’s amnesia. However, the detective had noted with concern Angela’s diminishing mental stability. The young cop’s escalating affection for the victim bordered on unprofessional, as his descriptions grew more sympathetically subjective rather than analytically objective.
Jake rocked onto the rear legs of the chair and chewed on the end of a pen. Burke had definitely become emotionally involved with Angela. Becky even mentioned it on the phone yesterday. Had Burke tried to force his affections on Angela only to have her reject him even in her vulnerable state? That would piss a guy off.
He scowled, trying to remember exactly what Burke himself had said about the relationship. His eyes narrowed when he remembered. Protect…take care of… I scared her away.
The front legs of the chair dropped back to the floor with a loud thud. His fingers flipped through the pages until he found the report on the last face-to-face meeting between Burke and Angela. Reading between the lines, he could easily imagine the detective pleading with her not to move away. God, the cop was pathetic.
Shuffling through more paper, he grabbed the notes from Burke’s phone calls to Angela in Coronado. He scanned the contents and then leaned back, frowning. From the lack of meaningful information, the phone conversations must have been short and sweet, or maybe not so sweet. Angela was trying to move on with her life, leaving the rape behind her. Which meant leaving Burke behind also.
When Angela had confided in Jake about the rape, she’d briefly mentioned Sean Burke, but only in his capacity as a detective on her case. Jake reasoned he would’ve detected in her words or body language the existence of a personal relationship. Undoubtedly, in her considerate way, she’d been nice and attentive to the man, but there was no indication she had returned his affections.
Had Burke unsuccessfully pursued Angela for the last four years? Frustrated. Resentful. Vengeful. Had he snapped?
Unrequited love. A well-known motive for murder.
Well, shit, that puts a whole new spin on things.
Yesterday, Burke had seemed like his best ally; now Jake wasn’t so sure. He’d come to LA looking for connections, but he hadn’t expected the detective on the case to become one of the suspects.
He mentally slapped himself. His investigation into the possible connection between the rape and the hit contract was barely two days old. Way too early to be jumping to any conclusions. His first impressions of people were usually correct, and his original take on Burke had been that he was a straight shooter committed to getting justice for Angela. The theory that the young cop took out a contract on her because she broke his heart was a stretch, and frankly, he didn’t want to believe it.
Was he so desperate that he was grasping at straws? He answered with a strong shake of his head. At this point in the game, though, it was wise to keep all options on the table, regardless of how weak or improbable.
He shoved the chair back and sauntered over for a J.D. refill. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and savored two long swallows.
He stepped to the window. LA smog lay like a dingy blanket across the landscape. Millions of people lived and worked under the dirty sky. Was Angela’s rapist one of them? Was the person who wanted Angela dead one of them? Was it one person or two different people? Damn.
Jake glanced at his watch: 3:15 p.m. He set the drink down and pulled his phone from his pocket. Her phone rang four times before she answered.
“Hi Becky. It’s Jake.”
“Who?”
“Jake. Jake Stone.”
“What do you want?”
The icicles in her voice sent a chill through him. He hesitated, puzzled.
“I’m just calling to check on you.”
“Why?”
“Uh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I knew you were upset when I left, and I wanted to be sure you were okay.” She didn’t respond. “Becky, are you all right?” Jake’s nerves, already taut, tightened a notch.
“No.”
“Are you upset about our talk or…did something happen after I left?”
“After.”
His throat constricted. “What happened?”
“I can’t say.”
“Becky, tell me what’s wrong. Did someone scare you?”
“Yes,” she said after a lengthy pause.
“Damn it, talk to me, Becky!” Jake exploded. “Do I need to come back over there?”
“Don’t you dare, young man. And don’t call me Becky anymore. How could you pull the wool over my eyes about Angela? Was it fun playing with an old woman’s emotions? Shame. Shame on you.”
Jake pulled the phone away from his ear, frowned, and shook his head vigorously. “What the hell—”
“Watch your language, Mr. Stone.”
A long, slow breath whistled through his lips. “Give me a break, Miss Smelter. Tell…please tell me what’s got you so upset.” Through the silence, he heard her labored breathing. Again, he shuddered at the possibility of a heart attack. “Miss Smelter?”
“Sean…Sean said—” Her voice cracked. “You killed Angela.”
* * *
Casually tucking the receiver between his ear and shoulder so he could continue typing on the keyboard, the detective answered. “Sean Burke.”
“You son of a bitch.”
He straightened in his chair. “Who is this?”
“I should rip your goddamn head off.”
“Stone?”
“Yes, you asshole. How dare you turn Becky Smelter against me. I have more questions for her, but now she’s afraid to talk to me. Where the hell do you get off telling her I killed Angela? I thought you wanted to help me catch Angela’s murderer, not string me up by my nuts. I should come over there and kick your—”
“Careful, Stone,” Burke said sternly, running a hand across his forehead. He wanted to kick his own ass for sounding off to the old lady. “I didn’t tell Becky that.”
“Bullshit!”
“I didn’t,” Burke insisted. “What I said was, statistically speaking, you’d be a prime suspect based on your personal relationship with Angela.”
“Yeah, the personal relationship you wanted with her but never got. Getting denied is tough on the old ego, isn’t it cop-boy? Wanted to fuck the pretty lady, but she said no. Rejection is a bitch, but it’s a great motive for murder.”
“Fuck you, Stone. I admitted how involved I got with trying to solve the rape. I thought someone owed it to Angela after what she’d been through. Her vulnerability triggered the whole macho-protectiveness thing we guys do.”
“Becky thought your interest in Angela went way beyond that. After reading your reports, I agree with her.”
Burke’s first reaction to the accusation was hostile silence. “Becky Smelter has a big mouth,” he finally offered, trying to tamp down his anger.
“Yeah, she does. So, what’s it going to be, Burke? Allies or enemies? Trust or distrust?”
His fist tightened on the receiver. His eyes narrowed and stared, unseeing, at the computer monitor. “How about a temporary truce to our mutual distrust?”
Jake hesitated. “Okay. Does that mean you’ll still help me?”
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“Couple of things, for now. Was there ever any resolution to the mystery about the clothes the Smelters saw Angela wearing?”
“No. Angela always denied owning the clothing, and it was never found.”
“What about the red thong?”
“Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten about that. She didn’t find it for quite a while. Again, she said it wasn’t hers, but her DNA was on it.”
“Becky suggested the perp supplied the clothes. What do you think of her theory?” Jake asked.
“It’s possible. He’d need to know her sizes, which also suggests familiarity.”
“Right. But why take the clothes? Could there have been something incriminating about them?”
“With nothing more to go on than the Smelters’ description of the outfit, we didn’t try any kind of trace. We had an artist work with them on sketches of Angela and the mystery man. A copy of the sketch is in the envelope.”
“Yeah, I saw it. It didn’t trigger any response from Angela?”
“Nothing. It was dark, and the angle was from the side and back so we didn’t have any luck with matching the guy to a mug shot either,” Burke said.
“And the thong?”
“Standard Victoria’s Secret item. No identifying marks.”
“Shit. You ever hear of a rapist dressing up the victim and then taking the clothes home with him?”
“Hell no. It’s damn frustrating we can’t gain anything from it. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. What else do you need?”
“Do you have current pictures and addresses for J.J. and his girlfriend? And any info on the vehicles they drive?”
“I don’t, but I can check with Vice. Probably not the same girlfriend now.”
“Whoever he’s screwing these days is fine. I just want to track him for a while.”
“Track him, huh?”
“Maybe have a chat.”
“Yeah, well, he’s short, but lethal. Watch your back,” Burke warned.
“Thanks for the tip. Can you e-mail me the pictures and addresses?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Jake gave him an e-mail address to use.
“I’ve got to go if I’m going to call my buddy in Vice before I split. Anything else?” he asked impatiently.
“Yeah, call Becky and tell her you were wrong about me.”
“Sure. Later.”
Burke dropped the receiver onto the phone cradle, swearing under his breath. He leaned back in his chair and scowled at the information on the computer screen—the scarce data he’d found on Jake Stone. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Stone was good at covering his own tracks. How good was he at uncovering other people’s?
He scrubbed his hand across his hair. Becky Smelter’s mouth was becoming a liability. How was he going to shut her up?
* * *
The black Corvette prowled along the asphalt like a hungry panther. No sign of the Land Rover. Jake breathed easier. The exclusive West Hollywood address of J.J.’s condo was in the next block.
Beneath his calm exterior, Jake’s anger simmered. A pimp living like a king was just wrong. And if the pimp had carved his initials in Angela’s sweet ass, that wrong was about to be righted. Permanently.
The luxurious condominium complex covered an entire block. Jake circled it twice, mentally noting the guard at the main entrance, the perimeter cameras, and the eight-foot wrought iron fence. In addition to the main entry, each side of the block had a locked entrance. In his experience, normal security procedures would also include additional video cameras monitoring the interior courtyards and elevators. The parking garage was underground with access through a keycard-only electronic gate. The complex should have sported a sign reading Visitors Unwelcome.
He swung the car into a parking spot at the curb as a formally dressed, elderly couple alighted from a limousine and approached the west side entrance. He jumped out and trotted up the walk as the man opened the door. After the woman entered, Jake caught the edge of the door as the man stepped across the threshold. The older man turned, startled.
Jake smiled, nodded politely. “Good evening. Opera or philharmonic?” he asked, following them inside and closing the door.
The woman stepped around the old man to stand directly in front of the young stranger. “La Bohème. It was wonderful,” she cooed.
“Ah, very nice, although my favorite has always been Verdi’s Othello.”
“Oh, yes, but it’s so dark.”
Jake’s eyes raked over her before gazing seductively into the older woman’s face. “Yes, but filled with so much testosterone that masculine passion seems to fill the theater.”
She blushed, swallowed nervously, and batted her eyelashes. A chime sounded, and her companion grasped her elbow to turn her toward the elevator.
“Evelyn, the elevator’s here. Good evening,” he said with a curt nod to Jake.
After the elevator doors closed, Jake said a silent prayer of thanks for the many boring embassy functions he’d been forced to attend as a CIA operative, for opera was definitely not his thing. Then he hustled through the glass doors at the opposite end of the foyer and into a lush garden courtyard. He strolled nonchalantly to the desired building. A young couple returning from the Jacuzzi unwittingly provided him admission into the building.
The elevator took him to the eighth floor. The hallway was deserted, and Jake quickly located J.J.’s place. He sauntered by, glancing sideways at the lock. He turned the corner at the end of the hall, waited a minute, and then retraced his steps. Another critical glance told him all he needed to know about how to break into the condo.
A few minutes later, Jake drove to the address of the current girlfriend’s apartment located approximately five miles farther west toward Beverly Hills. J.J.’s bright yellow Hummer shone like a neon sign where it was parked at the curb near the entrance to the posh complex. The second recon stop lasted only fifteen minutes. With his years of experience, it didn’t take long to glean the necessary information.
As he returned to the Doubletree, Jake’s steely eyes glinted back at him in the rearview mirror. The predator loved stalking his prey.
Chapter 13
Twelve weeks earlier
“Congrats, Angela, on giving up your lumber imitation in only four days,” Jake said, loosening his embrace and brushing a wisp of hair from her face.
“Lumber imitation?”
“Yeah, you no longer stiffen up like a board when I hold you.”
“Ha. Very funny.” Warmth filled her in a comforting sensation. In the past few days, she had genuinely enjoyed Jake’s kisses and embraces. Only she knew how significant that was.
“Seriously, you’ve made a helluva lot of progress. I think you’re ready for step three. Don’t you?”
She wiggled out of his arms and turned away. “Depends on what it is.”
“Touching.”
Several awkward seconds ticked by.
“Where?”
He bent around so he could see her face. “Here. There. Everywhere.”
Her eyes widened. “Jesus, Jake, I don’t know.”
“Hell, we won’t know until we try.”
She slipped beyond his reach and stood up. Wringing her hands, she paced from the couch to the kitchen and back. Her gaze avoided his. “Let’s practice steps one and two for a few more days.”
When her path brought her closest to the couch, Jake sprang up and caught her by the shoulders. She tensed and pulled back.
“Hey, hey, what’s that about?” he asked. He brought her up close, lifted her chin, and kissed her lips lightly. “No backsliding, Angela. Talk to me.”
Her lips curled inward while she organized her thoughts. “Touching is so…so personal.”
