Nanny (17 page)

Imelda peeked inside. “I'm finished. Do you need anything before I leave?”

“Not a thing.” Smiling, Patrick offered her a freshly baked croissant. “Take one for the road.”

Imelda sighed. “You are very bad for me, Patrick.”

“When you're in my kitchen, there's no willpower allowed.” Flipping his towel over one shoulder, the chef leaned back against the granite sink. “Did you hear that truck noise earlier? Ms. Mulvaney told me one of the workmen dropped his hammer and broke an upstairs window.”

“I heard the window break. It is like a gunshot, I am thinking. And so much glass in the bedroom. It is good that one of the workmen came soon after to help me clean or I would still be working.”

“One of the workmen? Funny, I never knew one who was anxious to do cleanup.”

“Oh, he is a very nice man. Very strong hands. If I am ten years younger . . .” Imelda smiled, mischief in her eyes. “But I am not, so I will drive home to my cats and my crossword puzzles instead. You are leaving soon?”

“In half an hour,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Or I may wait until Ms. O'Connor comes home. I like to be sure the food is hot when they're ready to eat.”

“Such a conscientious man.” Imelda nodded approvingly. “Some woman will be very lucky to have a fine husband like you, Patrick.”

“Oh, I'm too busy to get married. Give me the field any day.” Smiling, he waved good-bye to the housekeeper, then went back to his perfectly rising dough.

The chemistry of making bread was always an intricate challenge, and Patrick Flanagan liked to test himself. It was pleasant to be close to his new family, too. For so many years he had been without roots or clear purpose.

But no longer. As he kneaded the soft dough, he thought about the powder in the jar he kept at the bottom of his leather satchel. The little bottle hidden on a shelf in his apartment.

His hands tightened, squeezing dough out through his fingers like strips of pale skin. All it would take was a few pinches.

Control,
he thought sharply. No sudden changes of plan. There would be time for action soon enough. The gunshot had gone perfectly. His friend had left his kayak, climbed onto a rock out of sight, and fired as planned. The warning had been delivered.

The dead rat had been Patrick's contribution. He still had to smile at the look of sheer terror on Amanda Winslow's face in the garage. One minute she was snapping out orders, the next she was babbling in terror.
So
delicious.

As a boy he'd never been able to lie well. But now he was a man, and he'd discovered he had a real gift for shaping his lies to suit different people. He considered his next lie as he kneaded the dough one last time. At first, all that had been asked of him was simple surveillance, acting as a set of eyes and ears inside the house, but soon other assignments had come. It had been easy for him to read Cara O'Connor's personal mail, then pass on the information in his neat, detailed handwriting. It had been simple to hint to Audra that she was overweight and ugly, but of course he loved her anyway. How kind he had been, sympathizing with Cara O'Connor's busy schedule and her terrible regret at missing such a large part of her girls' day. He laughed when he thought how subtly he had fueled all her regrets.

Delicious, he thought. He loved being a chef, but his new career was so much more satisfying. He would receive another twenty thousand dollars soon.

“Bread's done,” he said happily. “Now to the oven.”

He stared around his gleaming kitchen. Yes, he'd have a lovely meal ready and waiting for his favorite family.

chapter
20

A
udra and Sophy paced anxiously. Summer had tried to distract them with offers of food, television, and a Frisbee game, but the girls weren't interested. They were worried that their mother wasn't home yet, and soon Summer was feeling anxious, too. She was pulling out her phone to call Cara when a green Saturn raced around the corner and up the driveway.

When Cara emerged, clutching her briefcase, she looked rattled. “Sorry, my battery died, and I had to get a tow into Monterey. Thankfully they had a loaner.” She hugged Sophy and smoothed Audra's hair. “No long faces allowed.”

“You should have called,” Audra said in a high, tight voice. “I was—we were all worried about you. You always tell
me
to call. And Patrick's been keeping dinner warm for hours and
everything.
”

Cara had a stricken look on her face as she leaned down to hug Audra hard. “I'm okay, honey. We're all okay. This weekend up at the ranch is going to be wonderful.”

“You still should have called,” Audra muttered. “And what was wrong with your car battery? Didn't you buy one two months ago?”

“I suppose the salt air took its toll.” Cara rubbed her neck, frowning. “I'll ask when they bring the car back.” She glanced at her watch and gasped. “Yikes, let's go see Patrick and have dinner. Then I need to pack. Who wants to help?”

“Me,” Sophy said, waving a pink glove.

“I'd better help, too.” Audra took her mother's arm. “Last time you forgot to pack any socks, remember?”

“I'm so glad I have you to keep an eye on me, honey.” As Cara patted her daughter's arm, she glanced at Summer. “Are you packed, too?”

Summer knew the question was far from casual, considering her real destination. “Everything's ready.”

Sophy skipped across the grass. “All you'll need at the ranch is jeans and boots—and more boots, Ms. M. There's a
lot
of horse poop up there.”

Summer held open the door. “Thanks for the warning. I'll be very, very careful.” Her cell phone began to vibrate. “Why don't you go ahead and eat while I check on Gabe? He's supposed to drive us to the airport, I believe.” As the others went inside, Summer walked across the grass and pulled out her phone. “Mulvaney, here.”

 

The news wasn't especially good.

The forensics report on Cara's box showed unidentified oil traces on the brown paper wrapper, along with a mineral oil–based ink, and further results would take a week.

“That's all?” Summer asked impatiently. “Unidentified oil traces?”

Her boss gave an impatient huff. “Cut me some slack, Mulcahey.” A fiftyish Afro-American with a mind like an ICBM, Morrison Haley had grown up on the toughest streets in Detroit, always an inch over the line with the law, which made him a damned hard man to fool. A determined local priest had helped him secure a football scholarship to UCLA, where he'd been a record-breaking linebacker.

The special agent in charge of the Philadelphia field office was known as Mo to his friends, and Summer was one of the select few accorded that privilege.

“Right now we're up to our ears in terrorist sight-ings, most of them tips from whackos. Add in a string of armed robberies and a counterfeiting chain and you'll see why we're understaffed. I've already transferred your box to Quantico for further tests, but it's not deemed high priority.”

“Look, Mo—”

“Sorry, but there's nothing more I can do. Ask Ms. O'Connor to put in a word with the senator. He may have the juice to get some action, but I don't. End of story.” He sounded disgusted, and Summer felt just the same.

“Without more tests, we've got zip, Mo.”

“Stow it, Mulcahey. I sympathize, but that's my last word.” His voice tightened. “How's your arm? Any problems?”

Summer made her voice completely neutral. “No problems at all. Beyond the fact that I scare the shit out of dogs and little children.”

“You should have gone for reconstructive surgery three months ago. Line of duty makes it Uncle Sam's tab.”

“I had a case, remember.” As she spoke, Summer unconsciously fingered her arm. Though the sleeve of her jacket covered all trace of her scars, she could sense them with absolute clarity.

“Anything changes, you let me know. You took a pounding, with no help from that chickenshit partner of yours.”

“Mo—”

“Don't Mo
me.
Riley screwed up big-time and I don't like putting the lid on it.”

Glass shattering. Distant screams that sounded strangely like her own.

Then a sucking, snarling
wall of fire rolling down her arm.

“Riley's dead, Mo. He had two kids and a pregnant wife. Let it be.”

“I have and I will, because of his wife and kids. But damn it, I don't like it, especially when it leaves some people muttering it was your fault.”

“I'll survive,” Summer said tightly. “Riley's family needs full benefits. If there was a formal investigation . . .” She let the words trail off. They both knew what kind of red tape would result. A thorough investigation would reveal ongoing problems in field procedure, and Riley's benefits might be jeopardized.

Mo grumbled some more, then cleared his throat. “What about the letters you've been getting?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Like hell you don't. Your sister told me about them.”

“Jess? How did she—”

“Jess stayed in your condo for a few days. You were in D.C. being briefed, remember? While she was there you got two anonymous postcards in the mail. Nasty stuff, too. She called me, half-terrified, half-sputtering with outrage.” He gave a dry laugh. “Not a woman to be messed with, your sister. My wife would love her.” His voice hardened. “Any ideas who the bastard is?”

More than one, Summer thought. She had heard the muttered comments as she'd passed, but she had no firm names. “I can't say, sir.”

“They're FBI, so they'd know the moves, but I may get something from the postcards yet. If so, I'll have their asses in a sling for this. I'm glad your sister thought to send me the postcards.”

Leave it to Jess, Summer thought. “I see.”

“Do you? I'm responsible for my jurisdiction, damn it. You should have told me about this,” he snapped. “When did it start?”

“Two days after Riley died, sir.”

Mo blew out a hard breath. “I expect you to inform me of any further harassment, in any shape or form. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He cleared his throat. “Call me Mo, damn it.
Sir
was what they called Sidney Poitier in that old movie. By the way, your sister said hello. She wants to hear from you.”

By the time the line went dead, Summer's shoulders were tight with tension. She'd have to phone Jess and explain. She'd also have to . . .

“Something wrong?”

She jumped a good three inches, biting back an oath. “Make some noise, will you, Morgan? Otherwise, you might get yourself shot in that rugged jaw of yours.”

Gabe simply smiled. “I trust your reflexes. Where are the Buffy fans?”

“Helping Cara pack.” Summer slid her cell phone back into her pocket. “Everything set for Los Reyes?”

“Checked and rechecked. And you didn't answer my question. What's wrong?”

“What makes you think—”

“Because you look like you just took a bullet at point-blank range. So what's going on?”

“Nothing important,” Summer said coolly. She started to walk past, but Gabe grabbed her wrist.

Dimly she noted it was her left wrist, not her scarred one.

“Let's get this straight. If something's stuck in your craw, it affects your judgment and response time. That affects the mission. So I'll ask you again: What the hell is wrong?”

Summer was surprised to feel her heart pounding. He smelled like shaving cream and some kind of lemon soap. Wet hair. Damp face. Must have come right out of the shower—

“Mulvaney, I'm waiting.”

“Okay, there is something. I just had a call from my boss. The forensic analysis produced next to nothing. Mineral-based ink traces and soy oil of some sort.”

He seemed to be watching her face intensely. “That's all?”

“My SAC sent the contents on to the lab in D.C., but don't hold your breath. Unless Senator Winslow makes a fuss, it could be weeks.”

“He will,” Gabe said calmly. “I'll talk to him today. Now what
else
is bothering you?”

She considered lying. Heaven knows, hiding the details of her life had become a habit. Then she looked into his eyes and decided lying would be about as useful as a raincoat on a June day in Arizona.

She looked out over the grass, watching a big trawler cruise south. To Baja? Or even farther, down to Puerto Vallarta or Peru?

She rolled her shoulders a little and realized she hadn't a clue where to start. “It's about work.”

“The Philadelphia field office, you mean?”

Summer nodded. “My first partner . . . died a while back.”

Seventeen months, two weeks, and four days, Summer thought grimly.

“What happened?”

“Routine surveillance. I was the FNG.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow.

“Effing New Guy,” Summer said grimly. “We were parked, watching the back exit during a low-priority search warrant entry, and suddenly—” The memories streamed in cold waves. “Three lunatics the size of Jesse Ventura on major steroids exploded out of a locked garage with opening fire. We were pinned down, and my partner, Riley, hadn't even put on his Nomex. I looked around, heard the windshield pop, and he's hit, crumpling hard.” She took two sharp breaths, remembering what came next.

“Two of the guys race up to the car, and I see they have a red metal can. Everything happens so fast and Riley—my partner—had his window open. The next thing I know, they're dousing the seat, dousing Riley, dousing me . . .”

Her voice shook a little, so she stopped, awash in memories. She took another long breath. “In a second my clothes are burning. I try to get to Riley. Twice I try, but—”

Gabe's face was like steel when he reached out, gripping her shoulder. “So that's what happened. Bad break—especially for the FNG. You're still carrying it around with you, just like those scars carved into your arm. Let it go, Summer. Your partner screwed up, not you.”

She shook her head, a quick, angry movement like brushing away flies. “Riley was right there beside me, joking one minute, bloody the next. Then burning like a torch because I couldn't get close enough. So don't tell me to let it go, damn it, because I
can't
.”

“Point taken,” Gabe said quietly. “Why didn't you check the garage first?”

Summer stared out at the ocean.

“It was your partner's job, wasn't it? But he was hungry, or impatient, or he got a call from his accountant.”

“Call of nature,” Summer said quietly. “He hit the bushes and said the garage could wait. When he came back, I asked, but he told me to shut up. I was the FNG, so I took orders. And then—” She shuddered. “Then it was too late.”

Her fingers moved to her arm.

Gabe watched her cradle the scarred skin in an unconscious gesture that left him chilled, reliving the inferno through her motions.

She was right, of course. You never forgot a thing like that. You only thought about it slightly less than every hour of every day, wondering what you could have done differently so your partner would still be alive.

Gabe took in the closed expression on her face. “There's more, isn't there? It didn't end after the fire.”

She made a sharp movement with one hand. “Look, Gabe, I really don't want to talk about—”

“What happened next, Summer? Did they collar you for the mistake, put you under suspension? The FNG takes the flack?”

Her fingers moved restlessly over her arm. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

He could almost see her muscles lock, refusing to form the words. She stared out at the horizon, where clouds piled up over broken layers of light. “Riley, my partner, had two kids. Nice kids.” Her jaw worked back and forth. “His wife was pregnant with another one.”

“It sucks, but I still don't see—”

“I covered up for him,” she said tightly. “I said I screwed up and missed the men in the garage.” She rubbed her neck wearily. “A formal investigation would have wasted precious taxpayer money, thousands of dollars.”

“And blasted your pal Riley's death benefits, too.” Gabe frowned. “So you took the fall for him.”

“Damn it, I'm alive and he's
not.
It was the least I could do for his family. I can stand a little heat in return for knowing they'll be well cared for. Even if . . .”

She made an angry sound and shook her head. “Why am I telling you this? I haven't even told my sister or the staff shrink they sent me to afterward.”

“You're telling me because I'm an outsider, a stranger who won't take sides and won't lie to you. Because I'm a stranger, I can say that what you're doing is pretty damned brave, Summer. Stupid, but brave. So who's giving you the heat?”

“Who said anything about—”

“It doesn't take a shrink to see that you're tied up in knots, guilty and angry by turns. Someone's gunning for you. Who?”

She ground one toe in the gravel. “I don't know. They leave nasty notes in my locker. Stupid stuff—old jockstraps, excrement.” She took a slow breath. “Occasional letters.”

Gabe made a harsh sound. “Threats?”

Summer turned away.

“Damn it, have they threatened you, Summer?”