The tattoo.
It was there on the back of his hand.
The second man was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He glanced back for a second, but the hood was pulled so far down, Holt couldn’t make out any of the man’s features.
Suddenly, it hit him that Alex was a sitting duck in the alley.
Holt worked his way through the crowd to the back door, dialing Alex’s number as he walked.
“He just walked out the back door of the bar with another man,” he said when she answered. “They’re in the alley with you. Get out before they see you.”
“Too late,” Alex said. “I ducked down when the door opened. I don’t think they paid attention to the truck since it’s partially hidden by the Dumpster, but if I pull away now, they’ll bolt.”
“Can you see them now?”
“No. There’s a stack of crates blocking my view. I only caught a glimpse of them walking out the back door before I ducked, but I think they’re somewhere in those crates.”
Holt cursed under his breath. “Stay put and stay low until I call you.”
“Be careful.”
Holt slipped the phone into his jeans pocket and eased the back door open just a crack. The men weren’t anywhere to be seen, but crates and boxes littered the alley. They could be standing mere feet away and still be out of sight.
The faint sound of voices caught his ear and he slipped out into the alley, trying to determine the direction of the voices. An eight-foot stack of crates stood to his right, and he eased up behind them.
The voices grew louder and he peered through the slats in the crates, trying to make out the face of either man. The man from the pawn shop was facing the crates Holt crouched behind and he got a clean look at him. It was definitely the guy he was looking for. The guy with the hooded sweatshirt had his back to the crates, so Holt still couldn’t get a look at him.
“I told you to dump the body in the bayou,” the man in the hooded sweatshirt said.
“I did,” the tattoo man replied.
“Then how did that leg wind up in a police laboratory in New Orleans?”
“Maybe it was the tide. I weighted it down.”
“You really messed up, killing that guy.”
“It’s not my fault the guy saw me grab the kid and followed me. What was I supposed to do—let him go?”
“You were supposed to make sure no one was watching when you grabbed the kid.”
“I cleared out his apartment, just like you said, so everyone would think he took off with the kid.”
“And that plan would have worked if that fill-in sheriff hadn’t found a piece of him lying around. If the cops figure out that Bobby Rhonaldo is dead, they’re going to start treating this as something other than a random kidnapping. But all that’s irrelevant now, and it’s not the only problem I have.”
“I did everything you told me to do.”
“Yes, and more. I saw the pawn ticket when you paid for lunch. You pawned that guitar, you idiot.”
“But no one knows I had the guitar but you,” the tattoo man argued, but his expression belied the certainty of his words.
“Rhonaldo is missing, along with his daughter and all his belongings. That guitar was rare. The police could have sent out a bulletin asking anyone who sees it to contact them. Pawn shops don’t want any trouble with the law.”
“I’m sure no one’s looking for it,” the man said, his nervousness clear in his voice. “The guy didn’t even ask me questions.”
“Of course he didn’t ask questions. He’s not the cops and wouldn’t want trouble in his shop, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t pick up the phone and call the police as soon as you left.”
“Maybe the police will think Bobby sold the guitar for cash to get out of town.”
“Pawn shops have excellent security systems. If the owner reported the sale to the police, you can bet they have your face plastered across every law enforcement office in Louisiana.”
“I…I’m sorry, boss—”
“You would risk this—everything I’ve worked for—for a couple of dollars? What do you think I ought to do about that? What do you think I will do about that?”
“I’ll lie low,” tattoo man said, clearly starting to panic. “I have a place out of town. I can go there until this blows over.”
“I have a better idea.”
“No!” the man screamed.
Holt heard the click of steel but before he could jump around the crates, the shot rang out through the alley.
“Police!” he yelled and vaulted around the crates, gun leveled, but the shooter was already running down the alley.
Straight toward Alex.
* * *
T
HE SHOOTER DUCKED IN
and out of the debris and Dumpsters that lined the alley, making a shot impossible, especially as Holt was dodging the same obstacles. He prayed that Alex had heard the shot and stayed down. He had no doubt that if the shooter saw her, he’d have no problem killing her.
He was about thirty yards from his truck when three more shots rang out.
“No!” He ran as fast as he could, knocking over crates and trash cans as he went.
He rounded the Dumpster and saw steam coming from the engine. Two single bullet holes went straight through the windshield. He scanned the alley for the shooter, but he was long gone.
Holt rushed to the truck and yanked the door open. Alex looked up at him from where she was crouched on the floorboard, her hands and face covered with tiny cuts from the scattering of glass from the windshield. He felt almost dizzy from relief.
“Are you all right?” He extended his hand.
“Yes,” she said and took his hand. She stepped out of the truck, then slumped back against it and took a deep breath. “I thought…he came around that corner and before I could even duck, he’d already fired a shot at me. I barely ducked before he shot again.”
She started shaking. “If he’d have stopped even a second longer to fire a shot through the door—”
“But he didn’t,” Holt interrupted. He pulled her into his arms and held her close to him, trying to control his own racing heart. It was just beginning to hit him how close he’d come to losing her.
Alex squeezed him tightly, and he could feel her racing heart beating against his chest. “You were right for telling me to stay behind. I know it didn’t turn out like you expected, but it’s clear I’m not qualified to handle this.”
He placed his hands on each side of her face and looked down at her. “You handled it fine. You’re alive. That’s the only important thing.”
“But he got away. If I’d been better at this, I would have taken out my own gun and shot him in the leg or something.”
He smiled. “Old Ms. Maude did not teach you that much in one afternoon.”
Alex laughed. “I’m alive.”
Holt nodded. “Let’s call the police. The other guy wasn’t as lucky.”
“Oh, no!”
“Did you get a good look at the shooter?”
“No. The hood was low, and it all happened so fast.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look, either.”
She didn’t say any more, but he could tell by her expression that she felt the same way he did—frustrated, disappointed, cheated. Another good lead that had resulted in a dead end. Literally.
But it was hard to remain angry when he thought about what could have been lost. If Alex had reacted a second slower, or the shooter had been just a hair more accurate. He shook his head. Best to remove those thoughts completely from his mind. Alex was safe, and he was going to see that she stayed that way.
It took three long hours to settle everything with the New Orleans Police Department, the coroner and the mechanic’s shop. Three long hours to find out that the dead guy carried no identification and his fingerprints weren’t in the system. Only thirty minutes to find out that the truck couldn’t be repaired that night and they were without transportation.
“So what now?” Alex asked, as they signed off on their written statements.
“It’s late, and we’re both exhausted. I say we check into a hotel and get a rental car tomorrow. The repairs on my truck may take a few days.”
“Why waste money on a hotel? My apartment is ten minutes from here.”
“And that’s probably the first place the shooter will look.”
The breath caught in her throat for a moment, and she shook her head. “You’re right. I guess I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around all the implications.” Not to mention trying to control her emotions over the thought of checking into a hotel with Holt. Still, logic overruled emotion every time.
“Separate rooms, of course,” she said.
“Of course, but connected. Just in case…”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. She knew Holt was afraid the shooter would come looking for them—her specifically, since he couldn’t be certain she hadn’t gotten a good look at his face.
“Sir,” an officer interrupted them. “The captain asked me to give you a lift wherever you need to go. If you’re planning on staying the night, I can recommend a hotel a couple of blocks over.”
“That’s fine,” Holt said. “Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Holt slid a key card in the hotel door and pushed it open, allowing Alex to step inside. He did a quick sweep of the room, checking the bathroom and closets, then unlocked the door to the adjoining room. He left her room and, just seconds later, stepped back inside through the adjoining door.
“Does it pass inspection?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m glad they had adjoining rooms on the upper floors. You want to order room service? I’m starving.”
“Surprisingly, I am, too, but then I guess with minimal breakfast and almost no lunch, it stands to reason. Even the scared-half-to-death get hungry eventually.”
“Hey.” Holt placed a hand on her arm. “It’s okay to be scared. When I saw him take off in your direction, all I could do was run like hell and pray that you ducked.”
“It happened so quickly, yet it seemed like it happened in slow motion. Does that make any sense?”
He frowned. “Yeah. It makes perfect sense.”
It looked for a moment like he was going to say more, but then Alex saw the sheet come down over his eyes and knew he’d gone back to that place where everything was protected and nothing got outside of him. It was the brick wall she’d run up against so many times in their relationship. There was no scaling it and no breaking through.
She picked up a room service menu from the nightstand. “I think I’m going to have a burger and fries. How about you?”
“Sounds good.”
She handed him the menu. “Would you mind ordering? I want to take a quick shower.”
She slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, making sure the water was piping hot. A clean change of clothes would have been great, but the hotel robe would have to do.
The hot water made her sigh as she backed under the showerhead and let it run down her shoulders and back. She felt some of the tension leave her neck as her muscles loosened, and she rotated her head in a circular motion, the vertebrae cracking as she moved.
It was the first time she’d been alone since the shooting. Only the sound of running water surrounded her, and she was able to process everything that had happened that day. It was a lot of processing, but if anyone had the skill to handle it, she did. At least, she hoped she did.
College, medical school, internship—all preparing her to face the most complicated and elevated of emotions. But nothing could prepare you for harnessing all that knowledge and applying it to yourself. Logically, she knew she should be grateful to be alive and she was, but she was scared to death for Erika.
Based on what Holt overheard in the alley, it seemed fairly certain that the dead man had killed Bobby, pawned the guitar and dumped the body. If he had Erika, God only knew what had happened to her. And Alex was scared for Sarah. Her cousin hadn’t even scratched the surface of recovering from her husband’s affair and their impending divorce, and now he was dead. If something happened to Erika, Alex didn’t know that Sarah would be able to cope.
She ducked her head under the hot stream of water, rinsing the shampoo from her long tresses. If only their problems could be washed away so easily, she thought. She stepped out of the shower and dried off, twisting her damp hair into a knot at the back of her head, then donned a hotel robe and took a final look at herself in the foggy mirror.
Considering what she’d been through that day, she didn’t look bad. A little pale, but then, that could also be from not eating. At least, that was what she would tell herself. She applied a bit of the moisturizer sample provided by the hotel to her face and pronounced herself fit for eating inside her hotel room.
The food had already arrived and was waiting on a small table in her room next to the window. Holt was nowhere in sight. She peeked through the door to his room and saw the bathroom door closed. Before she could back away from the doorway, the bathroom door flew open and Holt stepped out, drying his hair with a towel.
He’d put on his same jeans, but he was bare everywhere else. Alex couldn’t help but notice how much harder his body was, and she longed to run her hand across his exposed skin. She also saw the scars. Some were scratches, and at least one looked like it was a puncture wound or perhaps a bullet hole. She sucked in a breath. The boy who’d left had come back a man. A man who’d probably seen more tragedy than she could ever imagine.
He lowered the towel and saw her standing there. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, yanking her gaze from his body up to his face. She could feel a flush creeping up her chest and neck.
He grinned and she knew he’d known that she was studying his body. A body she used to know every square inch of, but now was so different. For just a second, she wondered if his body would still fit with hers the way it used to—as if they’d been cast from molds intended to be separate pieces of the same item. But she dashed that thought away as soon as it appeared. Emotions were running high right now. Making decisions in such highly charged emotional states usually led to disaster.
“I put the food on the table in your room,” he said. “It’s bigger than the one in mine.”
“I saw and I smelled, and I can’t wait to dive in.”
Holt nodded. “No matter the stress level, eventually the body requires fuel.” He stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of her. She could feel the heat coming off of his body, and she longed to place a single hand on his bare chest, just like she used to.