She hadn’t bothered to retrieve her phone from Clay’s kitchen counter, fearing that, even though it was a drugstore pre-pay, they could probably ping the cell towers and locate her. Without it, though, she was as alone as if on a desert island.
Most travelers made their arrangements online in advance nowadays, booking bus trips early and taking advantage of discount prices, but she hadn’t had that luxury. So she was spending an uncomfortable night waiting for a person to arrive at five forty-five, according to the posted hours on the glass-enclosed cubbyhole designated as the office. Her destination was unknown. The bills from Clay’s petty cash box totaled three hundred, twenty-seven dollars. Where the bus took her didn’t matter. She would buy a one hundred dollar ticket to wherever one hundred dollars would take her. The self-serve kiosk couldn’t answer that question, stalling her escape. She had no other choice. A plane ticket was out of the question and she was afraid to hitch a ride.
Her objective was to get away from Tony DelMorrie and find a way back to Arizona because ultimately, Clay was right. She needed to wake up from this nightmare. Enough was enough. Tony DelMorrie could kill her, like he murdered poor Amber, if that’s what it came to. But he was done pushing her around. Testifying against him would be justice for Jill Diamond, but now it was more personal. She wanted vengeance for Amber.
Her throat closed, tears welled in her eyes, and she bowed her head. Amber befriended her from day one. And now she was gone. “I’m sorry. Amber,” she whispered, gulping back a sob.
“You okay, Sugar Plum?”
Her head snapped up and her heart escalated to her throat. The black man towered over her, the now silent cell in his hand. His features were sharp, clearly defined cheekbones and bright eyes. His black T-shirt hugged his chest beneath an open black leather jacket and he smelled of soap. Not the average bus terminal bum.
“I’m, I’m fine, thanks,” she stuttered.
“What’s a fine young thing like you doing in a bus depot all alone in the middle of the night?” He smiled, revealing straight white teeth.
“Waiting for my boyfriend. Please, I want to be alone.”
Still grinning, he cocked his head, “You want me to wait with you?”
She sat up straighter. “Please leave me alone.”
He held up both hands, fingers pointed to the ceiling. “Okay, Sweet Muffin. It just looked like you could use a friend.” He backed up three steps before turning and walking back outside the terminal door, raising his cell to his ear as he exited.
• • •
“Where to?” the Greyhound employee asked, stifling a yawn.
“How far can I go on a hundred dollar ticket?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? Which direction?”
“Pardon me?”
“Which way are you headed? North, east, south, or west?”
Cassidy answered confidently. “I’ll take the first bus going anywhere west.”
“On a C-note, you can get about two states away.”
She dug into one of the inside pockets of Clay’s jacket, counted out the bills, and slid them into a sunken tray beneath a barred window. The clerk robotically punched a few keys and returned a ticket to her that would take her into Illinois. She had about an hour to wait.
Shoving the coveted ticket into her jeans, she lugged her duffel into the ladies room. Turning up her nose at the stench, she used the facility, groaned at discovering the faucet did not release water, and resumed her seat on the hard wooden bench. As the sun rose, the terminal became a hub of activity. With the arrival of each bus, exhaust fumes permeated the air, threatening to turn her stomach. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee.
“He stand you up?”
The black man stood in front of her holding two small coffee cups. He extended one toward her. “It’s from the machine, but it’s better than nothing.”
“No, thank you.”
His eyebrows raised and he winked. “Suit yourself, Princess.” He balanced the cup on the end of the bench and strolled outside.
He looked like a pimp, probably surmising that she was some young girl running away from home and he could entice her into his world. If he knew what she was running from, he’d probably run, too, in the opposite direction. She scanned the windows and didn’t see him, then reached for the Styrofoam cup and lifted the thin plastic lid. The steam from the hot black coffee moistened her upper lip. She preferred her coffee with cream and wondered if he had dropped something in it, a sleeping pill or date rape drug. The aroma was tempting, but she snapped the lid back in place, pushed the cup to the end of the bench, and dropped her head into her hands. Within seconds, a pair of boots stepped into her line of vision on the floor. This guy was starting to scare her.
“You promised you would be there when I got home.”
Clay’s rich voice wrapped around her like a coveted flannel blanket. She raised her head to find him standing stone-faced in front of her in full uniform.
“Clay! What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here, Miss Hoake?”
The formality didn’t escape her and a part of her heart splintered. “I have to leave, Clay, I can’t … ”
“You have to come with me, Miss Hoake. I would prefer voluntarily, but I can cuff you if you resist.” His right fist opened and closed rhythmically.
Tears sprang to her eyes and her heart shattered. The man who had made love to her so exquisitely wasn’t the man standing in front of her any longer. Chalk up another thing Tony DelMorrie killed. She noticed the black man leaning against the wall, his cell at his thigh, watching through half-closed eyes, feigning disinterest. Most of the people in the bus station openly stared, anticipating a confrontation. The man behind the glass beamed. This would likely be the highlight of his day. Clay waited.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said, her voice sounding childlike. “On what grounds are you arresting me?” From her seat, he towered above her.
“I’m not arresting you, Miss Hoake, I’m asking you to come with me.” He glanced toward the black man and then leveled his gaze at her. “I could charge you with solicitation if you insist.”
She gasped, his icy words chilling her soul. Cassidy stood, willing her knees not to buckle, and Clay clutched her left elbow.
He wouldn’t look at her, didn’t say anything as they made their way to the police car parked outside the front door. There was no use trying to check the tears that fell slowly from the corners of her eyes and roamed down her cheeks. Clay floated his hand over her head and recited automatically, “Watch your head,” when she bent and slid into the backseat.
He slammed the door, walked around the rear of the vehicle, and slid into the driver’s seat. He unhooked the radio from the dashboard and spoke a combination of letters and numbers, informing dispatch he was on his way in.
They rode in silence. She massaged her forehead with her fingertips, hoping to ease the pounding headache that had erupted hours earlier with Clay’s phone call, and cried. She cried for Jill Diamond and Amber; she sobbed for her mother, who’d whispered with her last breath that she would always be with her; and she cried for herself, for all that she had lost from that day on. She cried because now she had lost Clay and she knew in her breaking heart that she would never know what it was like to have this man love her.
The police station was abuzz with activity when they arrived. Clay held her elbow and guided her around the dispatch desk, moving her toward the back. She tried to maintain a steady step, yet keep her head down. She must be a sight to the curious onlookers. Her mascara surely had run, her cheeks were wet, and her eyes probably swollen. When they approached the ladies room, she paused and turned pleading eyes to him.
“Go ahead. The window isn’t big enough for you to crawl out, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His words dripped with sarcasm.
Plopping her duffel on the floor outside the door as a signal to him that she wouldn’t run, she pushed on the door. She was done running. If only Clay would listen to her, let her explain. She used the facilities, grateful for the warm water washing over her hands, and stepped back out into the hall where Clay stood like a statue. He gestured down the hallway and they walked to the end and into a small room with a table and three chairs. It was just like she’d seen in the movies, one chair on one side and the other two facing it. In the center of the gunmetal gray table was a ring with a large chain attached to it and a dirty ashtray. Clay pulled the single chair out from the table and looked at her expectantly.
“May I stand?”
“No. Sit.” She obeyed and watched Clay speak into an intercom in the corner of the room. “She’s ready, Pat.” He turned, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall and stared at her. It resembled the look his ex-wife shot her the day Amber faced her down at the store. His was just as chilling.
She recognized the officer who entered the room as the policeman who had stopped them the night they drove to her apartment to get her clothes, the night another dead body lay outside the Fortieth Street apartments. He must specialize in shootings.
He extended his hand. “Miss Hoake, I’m Pat Tatman. Thank you for coming in.”
She could hardly speak when she shook his hand. “I didn’t have much choice.”
He shot a quick glance to Clay in the corner, cleared his throat, and smiled. “Well, thanks anyway. What can you tell me about Amber Malone?”
• • •
Tony DelMorrie was a creature of habit and when that routine was interrupted, it ruined his entire day. That’s what happened this morning, when he carried the newspaper into the bathroom for his morning constitutional, settled down with the sports section, and caught the front page headline out of the corner of his eye: “Murder Could Be Mistaken Identity.” What the fuck?
Amber’s smiling face stared back at him from the page. He didn’t know her, but that colored streak in her hair rattled him. Dropping the sports section he snatched the front page off the tile floor and read the article beneath the photo. The story hinted that the shooting was an orchestrated killing gone awry and that the dead woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The story did not identify who the actual apartment tenant and intended target might be, but he was no dummy. She would have had to show ID to rent the place, so the cops knew whose name was on that lease. Hell, they probably knew where Cassidy Hoake was this exact minute. Maybe they even had her in custody to keep her safe.
Zipping his pants, he cursed. He had hoped to get in and out of here under the radar of the Tanzini family. This was their turf and he was here without their knowledge or permission. That was mistake number one. Even in the underworld, there was a code to follow. You didn’t go trampin’ onto someone else’s turf without askin’.
Rule number two was no hits without consent. This would not sit well with the boss, Johnny Tanzini.
He cancelled the manicure and massage he scheduled today. Damn, that was his reward to himself for writing the final chapter on Jill Diamond’s accident. He’d been looking forward to some pampering before making his way back home. But the news article made it clear his business wasn’t finished. This was twice now he tried to do away with that bitch. He wasn’t screwing around anymore. The third time would be the charm.
Pat Tatman wrapped up his interview by asking Cassidy not to leave town and for her contact information, including an address where he could reach her. She stuttered, glanced at Clay, and then shrugged. “I, um, was staying with a friend, but I’m not sure that is where I will be now.”
“I’ll give her a place to stay at The Chalets, Pat. You can list my address and let me know when you need her again.”
“Thanks, Clay. Miss Hoake, it was a pleasure and again, I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, standing with his hand outstretched. Cassidy rose as well and reciprocated. Pat strolled out of the interview room, leaving the door open. Cassidy rubbed a spot on the table, refusing to look at Clay.
He wanted to throttle her. The old Clay, the one with anger issues, would have slammed the door shut and ripped her a new one for being so stupid. The safest place she could be was with him. She obviously didn’t see that as an option, so all her words, their lovemaking, their talk of a future together, meant nothing to her. He was a fool to trust her, to let her into his heart. Well, hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, no way José. “Let’s go.”
He strode past her to the door and waited, turning when he didn’t hear her behind him. Seeing her with her head hung, trying to hide the wet rows on her cheeks jerked his heart. He couldn’t let her tears affect him, he wouldn’t be swayed by them. She was the devil in an angel’s body but evil none the less.
“C’mon, Miss Hoake.”
Keep it formal, stay focused. She took off. She didn’t trust you.
Cassidy retrieved her duffel bag from beneath the table and came up to his side, sniffling. “What now?”
He placed his hand between her shoulder blades to direct her out of the room and down the hall toward the exit, ignoring the tingling in his fingers and the urge to pull her into his embrace and squeeze. Cassidy closed that door last night when she ran.
“I’ve been up all night. I’d like to get some sleep before I come back out on my next shift.” He flashed back to the last time he pulled an all-nighter and then rushed home to make love to Cassidy and fall asleep in her arms.
Damn
.
“What about The Packing Place? I have a job there,” she said, staring at the pavement as they walked toward his truck.
“You can’t go back there. When they found out about Amber this morning they assumed you were with her and that you ran. I didn’t tell them differently.”
She waited until he turned the key in the ignition to ask. “Where are we going?”
Time to lay it on the line one last time. “We’re going back to my place, Miss Hoake. I’m not going to chase you again. So, when I fall asleep, if you run, you’ll be running for your life. All I can say is good luck.”
“I won’t run again. We both know what happened to Amber, even if neither one of us is telling Officer Tatman the whole story. My plan was to get back to Arizona. You’ve convinced me that’s the right thing to do. I care about you and I don’t want you to get hurt. If Tony DelMorrie is that close, he’ll follow me and leave you and Maggie alone. I didn’t run out on you, Clay, I ran to protect you. I won’t leave again, I promise.”