Clay nodded. Questions buzzed in his head like a thousand live wires. “Get dressed. I’m going to call this in. Get Jett out looking.” He pulled out the phone, hit some numbers. “Any idea what he looked like?”
She shook her head. “Once the lights went out, I couldn’t see a thing. You might have Jett check nearby hospitals because I may have gotten lucky and shot the son of a bitch.”
Clay briefed Jett on the situation and sent him on patrol. He walked into the living room expecting to find Marty there, but the room was empty. “Hogan?”
“Just a sec,” came her voice from the bedroom.
Clay wandered to the hall, found the door to her bedroom closed. “You okay?”
She came out. “Better.”
He frowned at the sight of her in uniform. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job.”
“Your job right now is to sit down and tell me what happened.”
Crossing to the night table, she picked up her holster and proceeded to buckle it at her hips. Clay stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You’re not going to do this.”
“Some son of a bitch invaded my home and attacked me and you expect me to sit back and let him go?”
He took the holster from her hands and returned it to the night table. “Come here.”
“I need to work this.”
“I mean it, damn it.” Taking her arm, he ushered her into the living room and gently pushed her onto the sofa. “Now, sit.”
“We’re wasting time.” She started to rise, but he eased her back down by putting his hand on her shoulder.
Sighing, she leaned back and folded her arms. “Please tell me you at least have Jett out looking.”
Clay nodded, lowered himself to the adjacent chair and put his elbows on his knees. Across from him, she was trying to get back into cop mode, trying even harder to appear calm and in control. But he could tell by her body language she wasn’t any of those things. “Tell me what happened.”
She looked away briefly, then met his gaze head-on. “I was taking a bath. The lights went out. I grabbed my robe. Walked into the bedroom.” A breath shuddered out of her. “He hit me like a ton of bricks. Took me down to the floor.” The words were tumbling out of her now. Too fast, running together. “We struggled. I kept my head, but he was . . . incredibly strong. I knew my only chance of getting control of the situation was my weapon. I’d left it on the night table. I kept trying to break away. When I finally did, I grabbed it and fired.”
“You think you hit him?”
“I don’t know. I looked, but there wasn’t any blood.”
“How many times did you fire?”
“I emptied the clip.”
Good girl, he thought, as he got out his notebook. “Was he armed?”
“I didn’t see a weapon.”
But Clay knew that didn’t mean the perp didn’t have one. All that told him was that the intruder hadn’t planned to kill her right off the bat. He’d had other things planned, but what? “Did you get a feel for his size? Height? Weight?”
“He didn’t have a lot of bulk. He was more wiry. Muscular. Thin, but not bony or frail. He was like a damn rock.”
“Clothes?”
Her brows went together. Clay wondered what it would be like to go to her and smooth away the wrinkle between them with his fingers . . .
“He was wearing a jacket. I felt it when we were struggling. Denim. Maybe a T-shirt underneath. I don’t know about his pants.”
“What about hair?”
“Not long because I tried to yank it out. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Color?”
She shook her head.
“Facial hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have a smell? Booze breath? Cigarettes? Maybe he’d just pumped gas?”
“He smelled like gum.” Her eyes widened as if she’d just thought of it. “Mint. Spearmint, maybe. I remember thinking he had pretty fresh breath for a shit-eating perp.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Clay smiled as he scribbled in the notebook, details he would need in order to put out a description with the county and file his report. “Did he say anything?”
“That’s one of the things that was so weird about it. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t call me names. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t grope.”
“Maybe he was afraid you’d recognize his voice.”
Marty said nothing.
Clay tried again. “Was there anything familiar about him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You thinking it was Smitty?”
“Or someone else you might know. Maybe someone who followed you from Chicago?”
“A fan from my perp-beating days?”
“Old boyfriend. Admirer. Stalker. You know how it goes.”
“I didn’t have any of those things.”
“You sure?”
“How could I not be sure?”
“What about Smitty?”
She shook her head, but Clay thought it was more of an I-don’t-know kind of shake as opposed to an adamant no. “You think he’s capable of something like this?”
“I think Smitty walks a fine line.” Clay sighed. “There have been a couple of incidents.”
“He definitely didn’t like me.” She gave him a wry smile that looked out of place on her pale face. “He’s a bully and a pig, but I can’t see him doing something like this.”
“In any case, I’ll make it a point to talk to him. Feel him out.”
She nodded.
“Hogan, when I got here tonight, your doors were unlocked. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Guess I’m getting lax since moving here to Mayberry, where the crime rate, by the way, is—and I quote the chief—‘next to nothing.’ ” She gave him a knowing look. “I guess that excludes home invasions and sniper attacks.”
Clay had debated whether or not to bring up something else that had been eating at him. A niggling at the back of his brain that wouldn’t go away. He’d learned when that happened to pull it out and take a look at it. He figured he owed it to Marty to lay down his theories no matter how fervently she didn’t want to hear them.
“You have any other ideas?” he asked.
Her gaze skittered to the right, a sure sign that she had an idea of what he was thinking. “Like what?”
He let the silence work for a moment, watched her fidget, then opened the Pandora’s box neither of them had wanted to touch. “Since you seem reluctant to broach the subject, I will.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “We’re a thousand miles from Chicago.”
“That’s why God invented cars and airplanes. So people could travel long distances to do dirty deeds.”
“Is that what you think this is about?”
“I think it’s something we need to consider, don’t you?”
“Look, I’ve had my share of crackpots and idiots contact me about what happened. Most people just want to voice their opinion or tell me what they think of me or call me a few names. But nothing like this has ever happened.”
“Is the perp still in jail?”
“No one’s told me different.”
“In other words you haven’t checked.”
“The guy killed a kid, Clay. He can’t be out.”
“Stranger things have happened.” He scribbled a note to put a call in to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, then he gave Marty a level stare. “I think that, for whatever reason, someone has targeted you. Let’s face it, to anyone who saw that video, you’re not exactly cop of the year.”
He could see her mind spinning through the arguments she could use to debate the theory. “I think that’s a stretch.”
“How do you explain the shots fired in the canyon? Who the hell broke into your house and attacked you tonight?”
“I don’t know! It could have been random.”
“Random crimes with that level of violence don’t happen here.”
She gave him a wry smile, but her expression reminded him of a kitten that had just been kicked by a cruel child. “At least not until I came along, huh?”
“For God’s sake, Marty, this isn’t some lowlife trying to scare you. This is a dangerous individual with a serious agenda. We’re talking home invasion. The kind of crime that gets people killed. He had to have wanted you pretty badly to go to those lengths.”
Her throat bobbed twice. “He could have had me tonight. I was down. It would have been easy—” When her hands trembled, she set them on her knees and pushed, as if she could push away the memory. “There was a moment when I thought it was over. I thought he was going to kill me.”
Rising abruptly, she stalked to the kitchen to stare out the window above the sink. God help him, he knew better, but Clay went after her. Coming up behind her, he set his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Despite his words of reassurance, he could feel her shoulders trembling beneath his fingertips. “Marty.”
Slowly, she turned to him. Wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve, she looked up at him. “I’m a cop,” she whispered. “I’m not supposed to be scared.”
Clay detected vodka on her breath, but didn’t mention it. He knew they were playing with fire. He knew he was probably the one who would get burned. But the need to protect rose to mingle with another need that wasn’t so black-and-white. A need that was part affection and a whole lot sexual. It gripped him every time he so much as thought of her—which seemed to be every couple of minutes.
“Come here,” he whispered.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Because of what happened last time?”
“Because you’re married.”
Sincere surprise sent his brows up. “Married?”
“That, too.” Using the cuff of her shirt, she wiped at the tear on her cheek. “Look, no offense but I’ve got enough problems without getting tangled up in someone else’s marriage.”
“I’m divorced.”
“The woman who came to see you today claims to be married to you.”
“We’ve been divorced for six years.”
“You’re sure about that?”
He laughed and used her words from earlier when he’d asked her a dumb question. “How could I not be sure?”
“Some men get confused about those kinds of details.”
“Ah, Hogan, you’re such a cynic.”
“Safer that way.”
“Since when do you play it safe?”
“Even I have my limits.”
Since she evidently wasn’t going to willingly get any closer to him, Clay went to her. Alarm flashed in her eyes. She went rigid when he put his arms around her. “Jesus, Hogan, you’re tense.”
“That home invasion stuff does me in every time.”
“Or maybe it’s me.”
She smiled. “Don’t give yourself too much credit, Chief.”
“Ouch.”
She came against him with the warm softness of a summer breeze. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
Clay mentally braced when she slid her arms around his shoulders. “Just doing my job.”
But it was a lie. He accepted that, as the slow spiral of pleasure wrapped around him, like some illicit narcotic. He didn’t know what to do next. His feelings for Marty had officially become a problem.
The one thing he knew for certain was that someone was trying to hurt her. Clay had to find out why. He had to find out who. And then he had to stop them.
From the cloak of darkness and the safety of distance, he
watched them through the binoculars. Through the kitchen window of her house, he saw that Marty Hogan was a lot closer to the chief of police than he’d ever imagined. An interesting development to say the least. One he could certainly find a way to use to his advantage.
He’d almost had her tonight. One more second and he would have used the stun gun. But he’d underestimated her. She’d been tougher and stronger and faster than he’d anticipated. He’d been careless, and it had nearly cost him his life.
It wouldn’t happen again.
The bullet had creased the flesh of his forearm. The wound wasn’t serious, but the pain infuriated him. It angered him even more that the American cop—a
woman
—had bested him. She wouldn’t be so lucky next time.
Of course, he or Katja could take her out with a single bullet from a half mile away. A full-metal-jacket boat tail out of the Dragunov sniper rifle and Marty Hogan would no longer be a problem. He and his sister would already be on their way back to Brighton Beach.
But neither Radimir nor Katja would be satisfied with a quick and painless death for the woman who’d destroyed their brother’s life. The Red Mafia didn’t work that way; their reputation hadn’t been built on easy death. No, he and Katja would make an example of Hogan, the way they had with the other Chicago cop, who’d stood back and done nothing while their brother sustained a beating severe enough to put him in the hospital. In the end, the cop had screamed like a pig at slaughter.
Marty Hogan would do the same. Radimir would make sure her screams echoed across the land until her vocal cords burst. He would make sure her blood stained the earth until her veins ran dry. He would make his mark on this town. He would take her life in a way no one would ever forget. Maybe post photos on the Internet so everyone would remember the Redfellas were a force to be reckoned with.
And when Radimir and Katja left this godforsaken part of Texas, Rurik would be avenged.
FOURTEEN
Clay pulled away an instant before the situation got out
of hand. It took every bit of discipline he possessed, but he took another step back, hoping the distance would help. When it didn’t, he turned and started toward the living room.
He heard Marty behind him, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He wasn’t sure what he might do if he did. Go to her. Wrap his arms around her. Kiss her. Or maybe he’d go for the gold, take her down to the floor and sink into all that heat . . .
Before he knew it, he was out the door and striding across the porch. He berated himself all the way to the Explorer, then slid inside. This wasn’t like him. Clay was far too cautious to get caught up in this kind of situation. Marty Hogan was the last kind of woman he needed in his life. She was reckless and brash and thumbed her nose at the rules. Clay just happened to be fond of rules. He was fond of boundaries and personal restraint, responsibility.
When it came to Marty, all those things he prided himself on possessing went out the window right along with his self-respect.
Cursing beneath his breath, he snatched up the radio and called Jett. The other man picked up immediately. “Yeah, Chief.”
“Any sign of our guy?”
“I’ve been driving around town for half an hour now. Found a couple of neckers in the park. Ramsey Decker was drunk again and sleeping in the Dumpster by the church. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What about hospitals?”
“Called a couple in Amarillo, but they haven’t reported any gunshot wounds.”
“I’ve got a partial description.” Clay relayed what little Marty had been able to give him.
“Roger that,” Jett said. “Hogan okay?”
“Yeah, just shaken up.”
“Any idea who attacked her?”
“Could be about that Chicago thing.” Clay paused. “Smitty crossed my mind.”
“You think he’d do something like that?” Jett sounded dubious.
“No, but I’m concerned enough to have a talk with him.”
“You want me to cruise around awhile longer?”
Clay looked at his watch. It was 10 P.M. Jett had been on duty for almost twelve hours. “Go on home.”
“I’m not going to argue with that.”
Clay racked the mike and cursed. He set his hands on the wheel. For a moment he was tempted to start the car and drive away. But he couldn’t do that to Marty. He couldn’t do it to himself. If something happened to her, he’d never be able to live with himself.
Clay had never been the kind of man to run away from his problems. Marty Hogan might be a problem, but she worked for him. She was his officer. A cop. But that wasn’t what bothered him most about the whole thing. It was the woman part that was eating him from the inside out. Not just any woman, but an attractive woman wreaking havoc on his willpower.
Self-preservation told him to steer clear. But the part of him that was a man first could not deny the fact that she was in danger. That he was the only one in a position to keep her safe.
“God
damn
it.” He rapped his fist hard against the steering wheel, then swung open the door and got out of the cruiser. He stood there for a moment, debating. But his decision was made.
Someone had come to
his
town and attacked one of
his
officers. They’d crossed a line. Clay couldn’t let his personal feelings for Marty get in the way of doing the right thing. He owed it to her. Owed it to himself. He was in it up to his chin, and he wouldn’t walk away until he got to the bottom of this.
Listening, he stood silent and still and looked around. There were plenty of hiding places around the house. The hedge of overgrown juniper on the south side. The cluster of pampas grass in the side yard. The squat piñon pine. The shed at the rear.
The hairs on his neck stood up. Clay stared into the vast darkness of the field to the west and wondered if someone was out there, watching, waiting, planning . . .
Planning what?
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Only the night answered, with the hiss of wind through the tall prairie grass.
He found Marty sitting in the kitchen, applying a Band-Aid to her abrasion. “How’s the knee?” he asked.
“Just skinned.”
But he knew she would be bruised in the morning. He wondered where else she’d been hurt but hadn’t mentioned. “I want you to walk me through what happened.”
She nodded. “I told you. I was in the tub, and I heard something.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he started down the hall, not stopping until he was in the bathroom. The candle sitting on the commode had nearly burned all the way down. Next to it, a tumbler half-full of what he assumed was vodka sat in testimony to what she’d been doing.
She spotted the glass at the same time he did. He gave her points for not trying to hide it or offering hollow explanations. He wondered why she’d bought another bottle. For an instant, he considered dumping it. But Clay knew it wouldn’t do any good in the long run. Short-term, he could dump a hundred bottles down the drain. In the long haul, she was going to have to do it on her own.
“I was half-dozing when the lights went out.”
“He unscrewed the main fuse.”
She nodded. “I got out of the tub. Grabbed my robe. I’d just stepped into the bedroom when he slammed into me from the side.”
“Both doors were unlocked?”
She looked sheepish for a moment and nodded. “I know. Stupid.”
“What happened next?”
“We struggled. I mule-kicked him and managed to grab my weapon on the night table.” She gave him a steady look. “And I engaged the son of a bitch.”
“Did he wear gloves?”
“Yeah. I felt them. Leather, I think.”
“That means this was premeditated. Not some Peeping Tom acting on impulse. This guy put some thought into it, came here with something specific in mind.”
“Yeah, well, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he?”
Her tough talk didn’t convince him she was impervious to what had happened. He’d seen the way she was shaking when he arrived. He’d seen the fear in her eyes and the pale cast of her skin. Both of those things were all the more powerful because he knew it was a rare state for her. “The overriding question is why,” he said. “And will he be back?”
She crossed the room and blew out the candle. “If he tries, I’ve got another box of ammo and a nice little .22 mini Magnum I’ve been dying to try out.”
Clay sighed. “Hogan . . .”
“Oh, I forgot. I’m a woman. I’m not allowed to fight back because I might break a nail or become hysterical. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Cut it out. This has nothing to do with your being a woman.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but Clay would be damned if he’d admit it. There were some double standards that were in place because they needed to be. “You can’t stay here tonight.”
“I’m a trained police officer. I’m armed—”
“You’re a target.”
“Would you be saying that to Jett?”
“You’re damn straight I would.”
“Just exactly where do you expect me to sleep?”
Clay had already considered his options; he didn’t like any of them. The motel wouldn’t be much safer than her house if the nameless, faceless goon came calling in the middle of the night. He’d thought about Jo Nell, but his dispatcher was getting on in years and wouldn’t be much help if something happened. If there had been any other officer available at that moment, Clay would have utilized him.
To his dismay, there wasn’t. Jett had just pulled a double shift. Dugan was off tonight. Clay was going to have to rely on himself. “The way I see it we have two choices.”
“I can’t wait to hear them.”
“I can sit in my Explorer all night and keep an eye on your place. Or you can follow me home and stay in my guest room.”
Marty snorted. “That’ll get the tongues wagging.”
“You have a better idea?”
“Look, Chief, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Unless you come up with a better plan in the next two minutes, you don’t have a choice.”
“Is that an order?”
“Let’s just call it a suggestion from a friend.”
That seemed to deflate her resistance, but only marginally. Clay knew it wouldn’t last. “Look,” he said reasonably, “I don’t relish the idea of sitting in my damn vehicle for the next eight hours. Pack your bag. We’ll go to my house and figure this thing out.”
“You’re treating me like some helpless female.”
“Hogan, for God’s sake, will you stop being so damn oversensitive about that? I don’t like this any better than you do. But if you want to pretend the situation isn’t dangerous, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she sighed. “Okay. You win. I’ll let you treat me like a frightened bimbo. But if you think I’m going to let you keep me from being a cop and doing what I do best, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Whatever.” Clay motioned toward the bedroom. “Pack. I’m going to take some photos of those footprints outside. We leave in ten.”
Marty was so angry she barely paid attention to the
clothes and toiletries she threw into her overnight bag. Not at Clay so much; she knew he was just doing his job. The person she was really angry with was the son of a bitch who was causing all this trouble. The person who’d shot at her in the canyon and, tonight, attacked her in her home.
Since, she’d been wracking her brain, trying to figure out who had it in for her. Like Clay, she’d considered Smitty. But she honestly didn’t think a home-invasion type attack was his style. He was more bark than bite. The kind of guy who liked to shoot off his mouth and push people around. But when it came down to firing on a fellow cop, Marty didn’t think he was up to the job.
If not Smitty, then who?
The question ate at her as she zipped her laptop into its case. She considered past arrests. Like a lot of cops, she’d made plenty of enemies in the years she’d worked Chicago’s South Side. Retaliation from an inmate upon his release from prison was always a concern. Marty couldn’t count the number of times she’d appeared in court to testify against some gangsta or lowlife. While some of them might have long memories, Chicago was their world. She couldn’t see any of them leaving their turf to follow her all the way to Texas.
That left the debacle from six months ago. As vehemently as Marty didn’t want to consider it, she was starting to believe someone had targeted her because of what she’d done. It wouldn’t have been hard to track her, thanks to an overzealous media. Her photograph and her move to Caprock Canyon had been blasted over the airwaves for everyone to see.
Had some police brutality zealot targeted her? Or did someone with ties to the suspect she’d abused on that terrible day decide to reap revenge on a cop gone bad?
“Ready?”
She startled at the sound of Clay’s voice. Straightening, Marty hefted her bag onto her shoulder, lifted her laptop case, and turned to face him. “I’m ready to find and catch this guy.”
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight.”
“I may not catch him, but with a little help from the computer I might be able to ID him.”
“Jesus, Hogan, are you always such a type A personality?”
“What do you think?”
“I think this guy’s in trouble if you get your hands on him.” Giving her a crooked smile, he took her bag. “That was a joke.”
“Oh.”
He shook his head. “Come on. We’ll take the Explorer.”
Marty had driven by Clay’s place once or twice while on patrol. It was, after all, her responsibility to familiarize herself with the town and its citizenry. But the truth of the matter was she’d been curious. About where he lived. How he lived. She’d been curious about
him.
She was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t realize they weren’t heading toward his place until he turned into the gravel lot of Foley’s Bar.
“Don’t tell me we’re stopping in for a beer,” she said.
He motioned toward a newish red Chevy pickup parked next to a Ford F250 flatbed. “Smitty’s truck.”
An odd sense of excitement kicked in her gut at the sight of Smitty’s vehicle. The kind of excitement a cop felt in anticipation of some action. “He’s probably not going to buy us drinks.”
Frowning, Clay put the Explorer in park and shut down the engine. “That truck wasn’t here when I drove by the first time.”
“You think he’s the one who paid me a visit tonight?”
“I think it’s a possibility worth checking out.” He opened his door.
Marty slid from the Explorer. “Clay, I didn’t get a good look at him.”
He met her in front of the vehicle. “Look, I know Smitty. And I think his reaction will tell us what we need to know.”
The only sound came from the crunch of their shoes over gravel and the deep-bass rumble of too-loud music and bad acoustics as they started toward the entrance. Marty was glad she’d changed into her uniform. She would never admit it to Clay, but she didn’t think she could face Smitty dressed in her civvies. Sometimes the uniform really was a coat of armor.
Clay opened the door. The blast of music hit Marty in the face with the force of a concussion grenade. The odors of cigarette smoke and spilled beer mingled with the darker smells of dirty hair and cheap cologne. She spotted Nola hustling up drinks behind the bar. A group of biker types congregated at the pool tables in the back. Two women wearing pinch-front straw hats, matching tank tops and bling-bling belts dirty danced in front of the jukebox.
Smitty slumped on a stool at the bar, where a longneck Bud sat next to a salt-crusted shot glass and a spent lime. He wore blue jeans and a denim jacket.
“You said the guy was wearing a denim jacket.” Clay motioned with his eyes toward Smitty.
Marty stared at the man on the bar stool, trying to mentally superimpose him over the vague image of the man who’d accosted her back at the house. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason, but the images didn’t jibe.