One Wrong Move, page 5
“I’m sure she won’t mind at all.” He got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” She nodded, and he headed to the nearest available phone.
“Hey, bro. What’s up?” Deckard said, answering on the fourth ring. “What’s the deal in Albuquerque?”
“We haven’t made it yet.” Christian stepped out of an officer’s way, moving to stand by the side of the vacant desk.
“You left hours ago,” Deckard said.
“We kinda had an accident. Could you and Riley run me a car?”
“Sure,” Deckard said. “Where are you at?”
“The Santa Fe police department.”
“Not a problem. I’m at the office. I’ll grab Riley. But what kind of accident?” Deckard asked.
“Who had an accident?” Riley asked in the background loud enough to hear.
“Let me put you on speaker so I don’t have to repeat everything,” Deck said. “Okay, go.”
“What happened?” Riley asked. “Are you okay?”
“We’re fine.”
“Who’s we?” she asked.
“Him and the insurance investigator,” Deckard said.
“Guys, focus,” Christian said. “I need . . . we need a car and a set of clothes for Andi—the insurance investigator. Riley, she’s about your size. Will you have to swing home to grab an outfit?”
“Nah, you know I keep outfits at the office—just in case.”
“Where’s your Bronco?” Deckard asked. “You total it or something?”
“Totaled it?” Riley asked. “Just how bad was your accident?”
“I can help run a car over,” Greyson offered.
“Hey, Grey,” Christian said. “I didn’t realize I was on with everyone.”
“You should know the man is always listening.” Deckard chuckled.
Wasn’t that the truth. Greyson Chadwick was a man of many talents—somehow always seeming to know everything, but then again, he’d taught them everything they knew about the PI business.
“The Bronco is done for.” He tried to leave it at that, but as anticipated, Riley wouldn’t allow it.
“So what happened?” she pressed.
He exhaled. They were going to freak. “We were run off the road.”
■ ■ ■
Cyrus’s phone rang. He took a sharp inhale and gripped his cell, debating whether or not to answer. But Teresa would just keep calling. She always did until he answered. He couldn’t even take a shower without her incessant calls at times.
He looked at Casey. “I’m going to take this outside.”
His partner frowned. “Why?”
Again with the questions. “Because it’s private. I’ll be back.”
The call dropped, and within a breath she was calling back.
“What?” he answered through gritted teeth.
“I haven’t heard back from Enrique. I can’t reach him. Did he take them out?”
So she’d told Enrique to keep tabs on him. He knew someone was there. Knew the outcome of the job from his source but didn’t know which one of Teresa’s thugs it was until now.
“Cyrus?” Impatience saturated her high-pitched voice.
He smiled with satisfaction at the disappointment this news would fill her with. “Probably because he botched the job.”
“What?” Hesitation hung heavy in her now Mexican-laced accent. It was ridiculous how quickly she took on the persona, became the person her husband believed she was, but he knew better. Knew her cruelty.
“Enrique failed.” He wouldn’t have. He leaned against the siding of the dilapidated mobile home that was base—at least until they’d wrapped up the last heist in the state. Then they’d move on. “My source confirmed they survived.” He lit a cigarette, and satisfaction filled him with the first blissful inhale.
“Can your source be trusted?” Her tone sharpened.
“Clearly more so than Enrique. He blew it.” He took another drag and moved under the somewhat remaining porch as rain pounded down. He hunched his shoulders against the burgeoning wind. “I don’t even know why you sent him here. . . .” He knew exactly why, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Unless you’re trying to keep tabs on me.”
“I want to make sure you don’t blow it,” she said.
He gripped his cell harder, his hand cramping with the tight hold. “I’m not the one who did.” Orange glowed on the tip of the cigarette as he inhaled again.
“Yes, you did, and Enrique covered your rear.”
He straightened. “What are you talking about?” He had this. Everything was in place.
“You let the girl see you.”
“What girl?”
“That girl from the gallery you cased.”
His muscles coiled. “How do you know that?” He didn’t even know that.
“Enrique was keeping tabs on you, as you say. He saw her recognize you on the street the day of the gala.”
His muscles grew taut. “What did he do?” If he screwed this up . . . drew more attention to them . . . he’d take Enrique out himself. “I doubt your thug was discreet in killing her.” Cyrus would have been. He could have handled it.
“He got rid of her. That’s all that matters.”
“If they find her body, it’ll only draw more attention to the case.”
“And killing Julia won’t?”
He inhaled, fury raking through him. He loathed being watched. “She won’t tie back to us. I made sure of it. She’s a nobody. The only place that investigation will land is a dead end. I doubt you can say the same of Enrique.” They would just have to wait and see, but the girl was someone. People knew her, and clearly knew she tied to the gallery. This was bad.
“It’ll be fine.”
They’d see. Now to the matter at hand. “Call your thug off.”
“No. I have every right to keep an eye on my investment.”
“There’ll be no investment unless you call him off.” He flicked the ashes on the porch. The stupid place could burn down for all he cared. They could have stayed someplace decent, but his partner insisted no one would find them here. He was tired of listening to people—his partner, his sister . . . “I mean it. Call him off or I walk.”
“You walk and you’re dead.” Her voice went cold—that cruel frigidness he’d dealt with all his life.
“Your threats don’t scare me. I can take Enrique.” In the blink of an eye.
Silence.
“You know I’m right.” His voice deepened as his boldness grew. He wasn’t the little kid she’d bullied for years. He was no longer under her thumb, even if she didn’t realize it yet. This was his show, and he’d run it any way he pleased.
“There are plenty of others I can send,” she said.
He smiled.
She was grasping at straws.
“It’s your choice,” he said. “I can get the job done or I can spend time taking out whoever you send after me.”
“That’s big talk for little Cyrus.”
He gripped his cell harder still, his fingers numbing. The rain shifted, coming in the porch sideways. “I’m not a kid anymore. Don’t test me.”
Silence.
He smiled. He had her—at least on this round, but it wouldn’t surprise him in the least if she ordered Enrique to take him out after it was over. That’s why he had plan B. She’d never see it coming.
ELEVEN
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Christian waved as his brother pulled into the lot in his black Chevy Equinox, followed by his sister in her red Miata convertible. He shook his head every time he saw her drive on or off their ranch in the vehicle. It looked like a windup car, but she loved it.
“Your family, I take it?” Andi asked.
He’d offered for her to rest inside the station while he got the SUV from Deckard, but like him, she was antsy to get to Gaiman’s Albuquerque gallery, so she joined him outside. At least by now, he hoped they’d have the gallery to themselves. Surely local police were gone. But given the cultural objects, they weren’t just talking local law enforcement. The cultural artifacts meant the Bureau’s art theft team would be involved. He groaned inwardly, praying it wouldn’t be Agent Hopkins who showed. But he still was based in Cali, last Christian heard. Just the idea of the Bureau’s art theft team set his nerves on edge—the fear he’d be unmasked.
And Andi . . . They’d just met, but somehow the thought of it happening in front of her dropped his stomach.
Deckard climbed out of the SUV, sunglasses on. It was sunny for the moment, but glancing at the sheets of rain coming from the south, they’d soon be driving in a deluge.
“Hey, man,” his brother said, pulling off his sunglasses and sticking them atop his tousled blond hair. He took two steps forward, then his gaze shifted to Andi, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Andi said.
Christian’s gaze bounced between them. Both of their jaws clamped, their faces flushed red. He frowned. “Do you two know each other?”
“You bet we do,” Deckard said.
Andi turned to Christian, her breath labored, her words coming out in spurts. “Deckard MacLeod is your . . . brother?”
Riley hopped out of her Miata with a colorful woven bag. “I brought clothes for you,” Riley said, stepping to Andi, no doubt attempting to defuse the tension. Always the peacemaker. At least when it didn’t pertain to her bold and wild side. “Hi.” She extended a hand. “I’m Riley.”
Andi struggled for composure. “Thank you,” she managed, her jaw still tight as she shook Riley’s hand. “I appreciate the change of clothes.”
“I can only imagine what you two went through,” Riley said, linking her arms over her chest. “If I get my hands on whoever did this . . .”
“You and me both,” Andi said, and then her gaze flicked to Deckard—holding there, her shoulders growing taut.
Christian studied their body language, expressions, and tight gazes on one another. What was up between them, and how did they know each other? From a past heist investigation? No. That didn’t make sense. He worked the heist cases. Deckard handled the cons and scams.
Deckard’s shoulders broadened, his stance poised for a fight.
Confusion shifted through Christian. What was happening?
Andi turned her pointed gaze back on him. “Your name?” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. You said your last name was O’Brady?”
“It is,” he said without elaborating, but he doubted she’d leave it there.
“How do you know each other?” Riley asked, echoing Christian’s exact sentiments.
Moisture welled in Andi’s eyes, taking Christian aback. What on earth?
“Your brother—” She cleared her throat, her fierce gaze fixed on Deckard—“ruined my career.”
The words barely left her mouth before Deckard retorted, “She destroyed Mitch Abrams’s life.”
“Mitch Abrams?” Christian said, perplexed. He was the innocent man Deckard helped set free from prison. “What on earth does Mitch Abrams have to do with Andi?”
“Andi?” Deckard dipped his chin. “This is Miranda Forester. The FBI crime lab agent who botched the DNA results that sent Mitch to jail.”
Christian’s gaze bounced back to Andi. She’d been FBI?
“I was set up,” she lobbed back. “Which I told your brother. But that didn’t matter to him.”
Before Christian could respond, Andi turned heel and strode into the station, Riley’s clothes in hand. He stood rooted in place, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. She was the one who botched the evidence? Somehow it didn’t fit in his mind. Not based on his first impression, and summing a person up fast was his gift. He prayed he wasn’t wrong this time, despite Deckard’s words.
Why it mattered so much for a woman he just met, he couldn’t say, but something inside him wanted her to be innocent. He needed to hear her side. Had she really been set up? And if so, why hadn’t his brother discovered that?
Deckard stepped forward and dropped his car keys in Christian’s open palm.
“Thanks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were working with Miranda Forester of all people?” Deckard said.
“Settle down, Deck,” Riley said, moving to stand by her brothers.
“How was I supposed to know?” Christian shrugged.
“Her name for one,” Deckard grunted.
“I was working that case in Germany at the time of Abrams’s case, so the particulars are fuzzy. And when you spoke of the FBI lady, you usually referred to her as ‘that agent.’”
Deckard raked a hand through his blond hair. “So now she’s going by Andi and has found a new occupation.”
“Because you got me fired from the Bureau,” Andi said, striding back out wearing Riley’s clothes.
Christian tried to stay on point, but for a moment he took in how beautiful she was—how Riley’s Wrangler jeans fit her curves, and how the black silk blouse brought out the blonde highlights in her light brown hair.
“Because you botched the DNA evidence and then lost the shirt—or took it,” Deckard said, his gravelly voice rising in volume, pulling Christian back to the conversation at hand.
“I told you,” she ground out. “I was set up.”
“Okay,” Riley said, positioning herself between Deckard and Andi. Deckard shifted to move to the side, and she turned and rested a hand on his chest to still him. “These two have a job to do,” she said. “And we should get going.”
Deckard stood fixed.
Andi did the same.
“Deck,” Riley said, “let’s go.”
“Fine,” Deckard said, his gaze flashing to Andi one last time as he moved to the side.
“I’ll wait in the car,” Andi said. She looked at Riley and smiled. “Thank you for the clothes.”
“Anytime.” Riley smiled back.
“I’ll be right there,” Christian said.
Deckard strode to his side and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “A little advice, baby brother. I’d stay as far away from Miranda Forester as you can. She’s already destroyed one man’s life.”
TWELVE
HER BODY RIGID, Andi sat stone still as Christian climbed into the driver’s seat of Deckard MacLeod’s SUV and buckled in, waiting for what was to come.
He glanced at her as he started the engine. “You were set up?”
She blinked. That was the last place she thought this conversation would start. She’d braced for a condemnation ride. “It’s a long story,” she said. No doubt Deckard had taken the opportunity to warn Christian before he left. She’d seen them talking through the glass door, Deckard’s movements heated.
Her chest squeezed, making breathing a strain. Not this again. Would she ever be able to leave this behind?
“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said, indicating the long stretch of road before them. Storm clouds brewed on the horizon, and the sheets of rain fell like streaks of gray in the distance. She loved watching the storms move across the mesa, but there was more than one storm coming. Her past was ready to rear its ugly head again and wash over her in a brutal downpour. She stiffened. She wasn’t ready to drown again.
“Andi,” he said, his voice tender, nudging.
They had an hour-long ride before them. Did she open herself up for ridicule or judgment by sharing her side of the story, or did she refuse to talk about it and let Deckard’s false claims stand?
She wavered, her chest squeezing tighter, pain stabbing her right rib.
“You okay?” He glanced over for a moment, before returning his gaze to the black pavement ahead.
She nodded, feeling anything but, and wishing with all her might that she had her own vehicle. But taking time to grab an Uber back to Tad’s gallery in Jeopardy Falls would have killed nearly an hour. She couldn’t, in good conscience, give up that time. She needed to be onsite ASAP, and as painful as this ride and conversation was going to be, she was a professional. She wouldn’t let her feelings override her duty.
“Andi?” he asked again, his voice even softer this time.
Her defense mechanism kicked in. “I’m sure your brother will fill you all in.”
“I’d like to hear what happened from you,” he said, flipping on his blinker and switching lanes. “You said you were set up?”
She forced a sharp breath into her lungs. She didn’t know why she felt Christian might actually believe her. It made no sense. He didn’t know her from Adam. No doubt when it came down to it, he’d side with his brother. But she was tired of not being bold in the truth of what had really happened. Deckard never gave her the space to explain—just cut her off, telling her to hire her own PI—but his tone and stature was one of disbelief. He believed her guilty, and apparently nothing was going to change that.
Praying she wouldn’t get pummeled, she went for it. “Okay,” she said, shifting in her seat to better face him. “But before I share, why do you have a different last name?”
“Fair enough.” He tapped the wheel as dark gray clouds blanketed the sky overhead, the threatening rain pelting the windshield like tiny daggers. Christian switched on the wiper blades. “O’Brady is my middle name. I thought it suited me better.”
“Uh-huh . . . Somehow I feel there’s more to that story.”
“It was just the right fit for me,” he said, not elaborating.
She understood the power of a name. After everything that went down, she’d considered changing her last name, but she’d done nothing wrong, and despite running from Albuquerque to the boonies outside of Santa Fe, she refused to let the past cower her into being someone she was not.
“Now, your turn,” Christian said.
She hesitated.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not here to judge you.”
“Funny.” She fidgeted with the lowest button on her blouse. “Everyone else does.”
“I’m not everybody else.”
She studied him, his steadfast profile, the kindness in his eyes when he glanced at her. His kindness was throwing her off . . . like being on a Tilt-A-Whirl with the world spinning around her. Her breath came in spurts.
