Mason: Fallen Angels MC (20 page)

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

She needed a way to feel safe. A way to feel like she had a home base. That was the big problem right now. She was at loose ends, and every direction she turned in had a different challenge. She had to pick one and face it.

The easiest thing would be selling the house. The market hadn’t ever crashed here, not anywhere near as badly as it had in the rest of the country. It was an up-to-date little cottage, with a new roof and a great kitchen. She’d been approached by realtors about it before; selling it should be simple. She could afford to rent for a bit while she decided her next step. Stay here, stay with Mason, leave, start over somewhere else— All sorts of options. Hell, she could move near Emily and set up shop down there as an independent financial consultant. Work with the local small business association. She didn’t have to stay here.

She didn’t have to feel powerless.

The house looked like it had been through a whirlwind, though. She’d torn through it, first in her attempt to flee town, and then in her random trips to grab what she needed and get back out as soon as possible.

Missy had cleaned out the kitchen of perishables at some point for her, and most of her clothes were gone, but the house had an “unlived in” feel the last few times she’d been there. She needed to get it cleaned and staged if she was going to approach a realtor about it. She could start that now. She could take a leave of absence from work, get her shit together, and then see where she was when the cards flipped over.

With the folder out of her hands, and a plan for the next few weeks at least, she straightened her back and walked toward her parked car.

***

Afterwards, she hated herself. Because as she pulled up to the house, she thought that something seemed different. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but her guts were screaming at her to run. And she didn’t. She parked in the garage, like she had a thousand times after work, and walked in the door, telling her guts that they were overreacting, and to stop being such wusses.

She didn’t pay attention to how the house didn’t have the deathly silence of a place that is completely empty, and that the air was fresher than it should have been if no one had opened a door or a window in a week, or that the papers on the kitchen counter—still left there from when Mason had brought them to her, still lying where Declan had strewn them as he screamed at her, tied to a chair in her own kitchen—had been neatened, piled in careful stacks.

By the time her brain managed to notice all of those little things that her guts had been trying to tell her since she’d pulled up to the garage, by the time her brain gave her feet the command to run and she tried to listen, it was far too late. He came out of the shadows, his hand going over her mouth, an arm wrapping around her waist. She kicked at him, but his legs were spread wide; she tried to bite at his hand, but his hand was cupped, and she couldn’t get any flesh between her teeth. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him over the muffled sound of her own scream.

She bucked against him, finding her feet in the air as he kept his grip on her; she was close enough to the counter to get some purchase, and she planted her feet and pushed back as hard as she could. He hadn’t expected her to have that much coordination; he kept from going over, but it was a near thing, and he had to let go of her to keep his balance as he stumbled back, crashing into the wall. The same place Gloria had hit. She hoped he broke a rib, too, the stupid fuck.

She was too off balance to keep her feet, but she didn’t waste time; she hauled herself up and bolted for the garage door; he got there first and blocked her, so she spun and headed for the living room and the front door. He caught her wrist, grabbed her, and turned her against the wall, his hand over her mouth again.

It was the cop; of course it was the cop. Detective Mike Randall. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but the screams tapered off, somehow. Her throat was too tight, too afraid.

“You dumb bitch,” he said, his tone more irritated than actually angry. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“You can’t just come into someone’s house,” she said, trying to gather herself together. Could she get her hand into her pocket, dial 911 without him seeing? Stupid smartphones, she could have pulled it off with an old school flip phone. “You need a warrant. Do you have a warrant, Detective?”

He shrugged. “We got a call that someone heard screams. Welfare check. Simple as that.” He grinned, and in a moment, he went from lizardly and evil to boyish and charming. Even though she’d seen those cold eyes and what lay beneath them, she felt something in her relaxing at the warmth in them now. Her guts twisted into a knot, thinking about what he could accomplish if he was able to turn that on and off so easily. “I just want to talk to you without your lug of a boyfriend around. Is that so difficult? I could drag you down to the station, if you’d prefer.”

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think you can, is the thing. I think you’re harassing me, and I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

He shrugged. “Prove it. Meanwhile, I can prove that your boyfriend is running drugs, guns, and underage girls under cover of that garage of his.”

“If you can prove it, then why are you talking to me?” Teddy’s comments had given her some strength, and she saw the anger flash through Randall’s eyes at her words. Score one for the lady.

“I hate to see a beautiful woman tangled up with a dirtbag like him,” he said, but he’d played his hand way too far. It came out false, and he knew it, didn’t even wait for her response. “I think you know what happened to Declan McDermott. I think he’s not just a missing person. And I think you know where I can find him. Or whatever’s left of him. And if you think drugs and prostitution are rough charges for a guy, you should see what they do for cold-blooded murder.” He smiled a cold, mean little grin.

Once, in college, she’d taken an acting class. She didn’t want to. She’d been a STEM girl all the way, enjoying making numbers and figures and formulas bend to her will, but she’d needed the arts credit to round out her transcript. She’d nearly failed the class because she improved so badly. She hadn’t even known you could fail an acting class. But if her teacher had seen her in that moment, she would have aced the class, no question.

She gave Randall a confused look and shrugged. “I have no idea who that is, detective. If I could help you, I certainly would. You see, I’m an upstanding citizen—some might say, a pillar of the community. Now, you were here to check on my welfare, and as you can see, I’m completely fine. Thank you for your concern. But if I see you in my home, or my place of work again, I will consider it harassment, and I will file a report.” Her heart was beating a mile a minute, slamming against her ribs so hard that she expected it to show through her T-shirt. She forced a small smile, just as cold and mean as his, to bend her lips. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

It wasn’t exactly a surprise what came next. She’d learned the hard way, a long time ago, how bullies responded to be bullied in return. He got in her face again, but he didn’t lay hands on her this time. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, to meet his eyes. “I will find him.” Randall spat the words out violently. “I will find him, and I will put an end to you
and
your boyfriend. Are we clear?”

It was the last bit that would have gotten her the A. She raised an eyebrow, completely unflustered, and smiled, as if she were amused. “You have a lovely day, detective. I hope you find your missing person.”

She was actually surprised that he left without hitting her. She’d expected a slap at the least. She was almost hoping for it; she really would have been able to file harassment charges then, and get this dick off her ass.

But he just narrowed his eyes and stalked out, leaving the garage door open behind him.

She forced herself to count to 100 before she let her knees give out, let herself slide down the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. Letting herself shake to pieces for just a little while.

She dropped her phone three times before she was even able to get it out of her pocket, much less dial a number.

“Jack?” She said, when he answered. “I need your help.”

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

“I’m— not sure how to phrase this,” Missy said. “I’m not upset that you called us—I said we’d do anything we could to help, and I meant that, and I know Jack did too. But I’m not sure why you called us, and not Mason. It seems like— He’s the guy to help in a situation like this?”

Caroline felt a bit like she was sitting in the eye of a tornado. All around her, emotions were surging and raging, but where she sat— there was a numbness. After everything else, it was rather nice. Relaxing. “I don’t know why,” she said. “It just— he’s— I don’t know.”

Missy wrapped her arm around Caroline’s shoulder and pulled her close. “Okay, honey. Don’t worry about it. Tell us what you need.”

“The guy,” she said. “Jack’s friend. He’s dirty. I’m sure of it.”

Jack shook his head, then winced at the motion. The cold had settled firmly in his head, and he was dizzy sitting up. “Mike Randall isn’t my guy. I don’t— he asked me a long time ago not to give out his name, but that’s not him. I promise you, Caro. But he’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know how he got the information, how he knew to come after you and Mason, but he’s not mine.”

“Then I think what we do is tell your friend,” Missy said. “Let him know. Let the department handle it.”

“But how do we do that without telling them about Declan?” Caroline asked, and the other two fell silent.

“I need to call my friend,” Jack said, after a bit. “Tell him what’s going on. He’ll know the best thing to do. If he thinks it's safest for us to just fly under the radar until this stops, he’ll say, but if there’s more he can do, he’ll do it. I know—” he said, before Caroline could protest. “I know it seems like a terrifying idea, but I need you to trust me on this one, okay? This is the right thing for us to do.”

Caroline took a deep breath and tried to survey her options. There were frighteningly few of them. The police held all the cards because they were supposed to be constrained by the law and what was right. If Detective Randall had abandoned those principles, then he would be very difficult to stop without— Well, without lethal force. And that was a road she didn’t want to go down. “You think Randall is the dirty cop?” Caroline said. “You think he’s the one Declan was working with?”

Jack nodded. “It’s a real possibility.”

Missy tapped her lips with her forefinger. “He might be afraid that Declan left something that would tie him to the case. He might be coming after you two to try and resolve that loose end, cover his own ass. If he can frame Mason for everything—let’s face it, Declan did half that work for him, and it would be easy to write the story from there—he covers his own involvement, or even spins a story where he was working undercover to make it all happen. It’s a little Hollywood, but it’s far from impossible.”

“I need to call my guy,” Jack said. “And Caroline, it’s beyond time for you to tell Mason what’s going on. Honestly, I think you should have told him as soon as you found the file.”

“I needed to take care of it myself,” she said, finding that the eye of the tempest had passed over her, and she was right smack in the middle of all the emotion all over again. Missy’s arm tightened around her shoulder, and she heard the soothing sounds the other woman was trying to make, but they just pissed her off more. “I’m not some weak little girl who has to rely on the men in her life to take care of her.”

“You’re not,” Jack agreed. “You handled yourself well. This isn’t about being a woman. This is about being in way over your head. This is a cop, Caroline. You think he couldn’t hide a body if he wanted to? You think he might not have done it already?”

That was a shock of cold water over her head, and she stopped fighting. She could feel Missy giving him a filthy look, but Jack didn’t stop. “I get it,” he said. “I get the need to take care of yourself. Especially after what you went through. But you’re not alone. And there’s a different between independent and stupid.”

“I’ll call Mason,” she said, her voice choked. “You call your friend.”