Summer Kisses (138 page)

“But there’s no proof.” Friedman leaned over the computer and scanned the files again. Muttered in German.

Kurt groped at the cuffs linked through the back of the chair. Tight. And fifteen endless feet to the gun.

Ring. Ring
. The mundane sound of his cell sounded odd in the taut room. Julie straightened, staring hopefully at the bump in his pocket, and a rush of optimism flooded him. Clearly she hadn’t given up.

Kurt looked at Friedman; their eyes clamped. No one spoke or seemed to breathe except for Otto, who panted like a rutting bull.

Six rings, and the phone silenced.

Friedman tightened his lips and rose. Adjusted his gloves, picked up a remote and pointed it at the television. A cooking show bubbled to life. Plump tomatoes were lined on a cutting board, and two men bantered about the sharpness of their knives.

He turned the volume up.

Jesus Christ! Kurt glanced at Julie, trying to grab her attention, but she stared, wide-eyed, at Friedman. He fought a rush of despair. Her courage was unquestionable, but this was asking a lot. She looked almost comatose and no wonder. He jabbed her with his foot.

“Sit, Otto.” Friedman nodded at the desk. “Let’s make a note for Mr. MacKinnon to copy.”

“But when can I fuck the girl? You said I could—”

“After,” Friedman said, his voice strangely gentle.

Otto squeezed in the chair by the desk. He picked up a pen, the tip barely visible in his hammy fist.

“Write, ‘I am sorry. Everything went wrong and I killed them all.’ You misspelled ‘killed.’ No, never mind,” Friedman said. “Actually that’s perfect. Don’t change it.” His voice hardened as he watched Otto struggle to copy the words. “Now sign your name.”

Comprehension jerked Kurt upright. The chair clunked behind him. “No, Otto!”

Friedman pressed the barrel above Otto’s eyes. The gun coughed, and Otto slumped back. A neat hole, blue around the edges, stained the middle of his forehead.

Julie gagged.

Friedman jerked the gun around, stopping Kurt’s rush. “Get back,” he snapped, motioning with the gun.

Kurt’s jaw twitched spasmodically. He backed the chair up and sat.

“Move to the bed, girl, and take off the rest of your clothes,” Friedman snapped. “Quickly now.”

Julie stared, disbelieving, a cold numbness settling into her limbs. Otto looked smaller. His head lolled back like he was asleep but there was an acrid odor: urine, feces and the coppery smell of blood. Her gaze scrabbled around the room. This couldn’t be real. Friedman’s mouth moved. He was looking at her, but his voice was an incomprehensible drone.

Kurt elbowed her in the ribs. Someone in the room whimpered. Oh, God, had that helpless sound come from her?

“Take some deep breaths. It’ll be okay,” Kurt said as he watched her suck in uneven breaths. He turned to Friedman, grimacing and rolling his eyes. “Typical female. She always falls apart. We ran into a bear, and she reacted this same way. Utterly useless. Give her a minute, and she’ll do whatever you tell her.”

Julie felt Kurt’s elbow dig in her ribs. Something hard squashed the top of her foot. His words made no sense, no sense at all. But his jabs were sharp, the pain an anchor in her fog.

“It’s going to be okay.” His gaze bored into her. “Remember the bear—same situation.”

She stared at him, trying to understand, but her mind and body seemed paralyzed. She wiggled her fingers, watching as they twitched in bizarre directions, as though controlled by someone else.

Yet Kurt just sat there, so calm, so unruffled, and her fear hardened with resentment. He was probably used to this kind of stuff. She shook her head, struggling to understand. He was a cop? Friedman and Otto were killers? He had been so interested in the dead cop. In Otto’s horse. In Otto, too. Now it made sense.

Her gaze drifted over Otto’s body, back to Kurt. Bile clogged her throat.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he said softly.

She averted her head, sickened by his handsome, lying face, swept with a growing fury. Now she understood why he’d come to Calgary. Everything had been a lie. Rage gutted her fear.

“Take off your clothes, girl,” Friedman snapped, “and move to the bed. Now!”

She grabbed her resolve and rose. Her legs felt like concrete slabs but she didn’t want to be shot like Otto, unresisting, sitting in a chair. It took fifteen pounding heartbeats to struggle out of her ripped shirt, and she fumbled even longer with the torn waistband of her jeans. At Friedman’s impatient jerk of the gun, she pushed the pants over her hips and stepped out.

Kurt saw the stubborn tilt to her chin, the battle set of her shoulders and marveled at her courage. He jerked his gaze away, desperate to draw Friedman’s attention.

“This isn’t necessary, you know,” he said. “They’ll pick you up at the airport.” He tilted forward a fraction. Braced his feet. There’d only be one chance.

“Won’t matter. No witnesses, no proof.” Friedman’s eyes flickered over Otto’s body and settled on Kurt. He barely looked at Julie. “Come on, girl.” He gestured.

She edged around the desk, balling her shirt and jeans in front of her, avoiding Otto’s sad, ruined head. “Please let me go,” she whimpered, pausing in front of Friedman, fumbling with her clothes.

He didn’t deign to answer. Just smiled, gleaming with unholy anticipation as he turned and leveled the gun at Kurt.

She dropped her clothes, straightened her arm and pressed. The pepper spray smacked Friedman square in the face. His hands flew to his eyes, his screech drowning the pop of the gun.

Kurt charged across the room, ignoring the burn in his neck. Kicked the gun from Friedman’s hand then kicked again and again and again, until Friedman stopped moving and curled, helpless and groaning, on the floor.

Kurt booted the gun across the room. “Call 911, then get out and wait in the office. Jesus, Julie, you were wonderful,” he added thickly. He didn’t look away from Friedman but heard her vomiting in the bathroom, heard her stumbling voice as she spoke on the phone, but it was distant, apart from him, and his rage darkened as he waited for Friedman to move, waited for a reason to hurt him again. For Connor, for Nick, for her.

“You’re bleeding,” she said as she hung up the phone.

“It’s only a graze. Just get out of this hellhole. I’m so sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

She tugged on her jeans and one of his too-big shirts, averting her eyes from the body slumped at the desk.

“So it’s true?” She struggled with the buttons and the enormity of his deception. “You really are a cop?”

“RCMP. I’ll explain everything once the police arrive.”

“I think that man with the gun explained things perfectly.” Her voice wobbled, and she dropped her arms, apparently giving up on trying to force the buttons into the holes. Clasping the front of the shirt, she opened the door and walked out.

Her shattered expression ripped at him. What a screw-up. He jerked helplessly at his hands, still cuffed behind his back. Wanted to wipe his eyes. Goddammit, it stung, and the blaring television hurt his ears. A man with protruding white teeth smiled stupidly from the screen as he demonstrated the best way to chop an onion.

Damn! Kurt slammed his boot into the television screen. Glass shattered but now the room was silent except for Friedman’s moans, and he felt marginally better.

Minutes dragged. Where the hell were the police? Friedman had put a nasty slant on everything and the longer she agonized over his deception, the worse it would be.

He stared at the man on the floor, willing Friedman to move, to twitch, to do something. He even encouraged him, prodding with the toe of his boot, but the chair cuffed to his back unbalanced him, and he staggered. Something tickled his neck. He glanced down, surprised at the blood that drenched his shirt.

A wailing siren grew louder then cut to abrupt silence. Car doors slammed. Seconds later two policemen with anxious eyes and flak jackets edged through the doorway. Their guns were drawn.

“RCMP,” Kurt said. “ID’s on the hidden pocket of the briefcase. Turn the panel to the right.”

“Don’t move,” the first officer warned. He retrieved Kurt’s identification, his wary gaze darting from the ID to Kurt’s face. “Okay, uncuff him,” he finally said. He pulled the key from the panel of Kurt’s briefcase, tossing it to his partner before moving to Friedman.

“What a stink.” The second officer swiped his watering eyes and stepped behind Kurt, struggling with the key.

At the click, Kurt shook the cuffs off. The chair toppled to the floor. He knocked it aside and lurched toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Call this man.” He called out Archer’s number and rushed from the room, ignoring their protests.

He barged into the motel office. A wide-eyed clerk was taking pictures through the window but immediately backed away.

“Was a blond lady in here?” Kurt asked.

The clerk nodded, cringing behind the counter.

“Well, dammit, where is she?”

“She left when the cop car showed up,” the clerk squeaked. “Please…we don’t keep any money here.”

Kurt shook his head, trying to focus, but the rushing in his head disrupted his vision and the clerk’s face blurred. “Which way she’d go?” His thickened tongue balled the words, and the clerk just shook his head.

A figure materialized in the doorway, and his hope spiked. But it wasn’t Julie, only another police officer. The man looked familiar though and Kurt stared, fighting his dizziness.

The man rushed closer. Kurt recognized the notebook officer from the barn. But he didn’t have a notebook now, and he didn’t ask any stupid questions. He just hollered for an ambulance as Kurt’s legs buckled.

The nurse swiped Kurt’s skin with a chilly antiseptic, and a needle pricked. “Doctor says you can leave tomorrow. Your neck will be sore, but you’re lucky. If that bullet had been a shade to the left, you wouldn’t have made it.”

She straightened his hospital gown, fussed over the sheets and sashayed from the room.

Archer chuckled. “Strange how all the women love your hairy ass. Hey, don’t give me that scowl. I’m one of the good guys.” His voice turned serious. “This didn’t go down the way we planned. Too bad about Otto, but at least we got Friedman.”

His smug tone grated. “What the hell went wrong?” Kurt asked.

Archer shook his balding head and stretched out in the corner chair. “We picked up a call. Friedman told Otto to meet him at the track. They drove in the backside but walked out the side exit to your motel. Our guys had their vehicles covered, but the track was your territory. You weren’t supposed to win races.” He frowned over the top of steepled fingers.

“I had an excellent jockey.” Lethargy thickened Kurt’s words. He twisted his head against the pillow, using the pain to stay alert. “Surveillance must have been sloppy if Otto made it. Prick was dumber than a codfish.” His stomach wrenched at the memory of Julie’s face when Otto manhandled her. “Asshole deserved to be shot,” he muttered.

Archer leaned forward and clicked off the recorder. “You don’t usually take things personally but considering the situation…” He shrugged and rose. “We got it done and appreciate you stepping in. There will be an internal review, of course, but the girl’s account matches yours. I do wonder what she was doing in your room though,” he added with a smile.

“Just keep wondering,” Kurt said. “God, what a mess for her.”

“She really was cool, quite the little champ.” Archer moved to the rail of the bed. “And she wasn’t hurt.” His perceptive face was much too close.

“Not hurt? Nearly raped and murdered!” Kurt twisted his head away. “I dragged her into the sewer. She had no idea I was a cop…she saved my life.”

“Guess it was a good thing she stayed the night,” Archer said.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, fighting his remorse. A trolley rumbled down the hall, and voices tittered from the nursing station. “Friedman told her the truth, not me.” His throat tightened as he recalled her horrified look of betrayal.

“Deception is necessary for undercover agents,” Archer said. “And you’re one of our best.”

“Great. That should make her feel better. Pass me my phone. You’ll have my report later.” His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Need to call her.” He fumbled at the metal table, knocking the IV stand. “Where’s my damn phone?”

“You won’t be calling today. And don’t beat yourself up so much.”

Kurt’s eyelids drooped. He forced them open, fighting their weight. Archer leaned over the bed, still talking, but it was Julie’s anguished face he saw long after a drug-induced sleep claimed him.

Sandra galloped down the track, stirring up a flurry of dust and waving her arm in excitement. “Still riding? The media’s clamoring to talk to our local hero.”

Julie blew out a sigh, slowing Skippy along the outside rail.

“It’s not so bad,” Sandra continued. “They just interviewed me. Martin too. They wrote down everything we said, word for word. One reporter asked if all jockeys were as brave as you. It was so much fun.” She gave a rueful shrug. “Hard to believe Otto’s dead, but I never liked him anyway.”

Julie stared across the track, numb to Sandra’s excitement. Otto was gone, and it was horrible to have seen him die. But it was Kurt’s betrayal that ripped at her gut.

She didn’t remember walking back to the barn, didn’t remember asking Sandra to drive her home. But the ruthless look on his face as he kicked Friedman was seared in her soul. She didn’t know him at all. Little wonder he didn’t show his feelings. He had none.

She’d been calm when the grim-faced Mounties converged with their pens and pads. But she couldn’t remember their questions or her stumbling answers. All she remembered was lying on the cold bathroom tiles, shaking and vomiting. Too shattered to even cry.

She’d been a murder suspect. A key to an investigation. His job. Physical intimacy had been his method to get her talking. And unfortunately it had worked.

She stiffened in the saddle, fresh bile climbing her throat. His questions about Otto, his compliments about her riding, his tender kisses. She’d swallowed every lie. Now she understood why he’d asked her—an unknown apprentice—to ride for him. She was an idiot. Even Liam had it figured.