Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (13 page)

Coffee and dry toast high on his priority list, he padded barefoot toward the kitchen. Lucky thing he’d thought ahead and pilfered a few things after Warren’s death. The scribbled notes jammed in files, the to-do lists in the kitchen, the handwritten minutes in the man’s desk from a garden club meeting. Not the kinds of things his daughter would miss, but great insurance. Just in case things went south.

Like now.

He’d even taken a few blank sheets of the man’s stationery and pressed Warren’s fingertips to the paper.

From the beginning he’d toyed with the idea of planting a farewell note. But involving other people in an operation increased risk. So he’d opted to forego the note—unless he ran into a glitch during the investigation.

As it turned out, no note had been needed. He’d done such a superb job staging the death that no one had questioned his conclusions.

Until the past month.

He yanked open the refrigerator, grabbed the bag of generic coffee that had replaced his preferred Starbucks brand, and slammed the door. He should have gone with the note weeks ago, when Kelly started to raise a serious stink. It would have been easier to plant it back then, before she’d searched her father’s house.

Instead, he’d panicked. Given in to a knee-jerk reaction. Tried to eliminate her—or at the very least, distract her—by creating a life-threatening allergy attack. And he’d pulled it off masterfully, thanks to the disguise skills he’d perfected as an undercover detective with the Dallas PD.

But panic was always a mistake . . . on the street, and in life. One he wouldn’t have made if he hadn’t been desperate to erase any roadblocks to a reconciliation with Cindy.

The past couldn’t be changed, though. He could only go forward. Guided by logic and reason this time, instead of emotion.

He fumbled with the top of the coffee bag, his fingers clumsy, his mind on the day’s agenda. Once he was sober, he’d check in at the office. Then he’d stop at the bank, withdraw the pilfered papers from his safe deposit box, and contact Freddie to arrange a drop. The sixtysomething former embezzler played it straight these days—for the most part—but he was the best forger around.

And Freddie owed him for looking the other direction on a few occasions. In his eleven years as a cop, Alan had learned it didn’t hurt to cultivate favors with people on the shady side of the law. They could be useful sources in investigations—if they had a personal reason to cooperate. And Freddie had plenty of those. He’d do a little job for him, no questions asked.

Once he had the note in hand, he’d figure out a plan to plant it where Kelly would find it—just as he’d considered doing in the days following the investigation if any questions arose. But he’d prefer to convince Rossi to sit tight. There was no hard evidence to tie him or the mob boss to the crime. In time, the questions would go away.

If Rossi would
give
it time.

He shook the coffee into a filter and settled it in the top of the coffeemaker, averting his face from the aroma. Usually, he liked the smell of coffee, but his stomach was still too unsettled from last night’s alcohol.

Or perhaps the queasiness was due to the familiar fear vibrating along his nerve endings. The same fear he felt when luck turned against him in the middle of a high-stakes game, with the same symptoms—dry mouth, pounding pulse, fast respiration. Along with a crushing sense he was about to lose everything, but it was too late to back out.

The situations
were
similar. Except the stakes in this game were a lot higher.

And he could think of only one less-than-foolproof remedy.

A wave of uneasiness shuddered through him. Bringing in a third party was risky. As much as Freddie owed him, he could turn out to be a wild card. And assuming Rossi insisted he fix the situation rather than wait it out, Alan had no idea how, without arousing suspicions, he was going to plant a letter in a house already thoroughly searched by Kelly and the Crime Scene Unit.

It was shaping up to be a pit of a day.

Frustrated, he snatched the pot out of the coffeemaker and stomped toward the sink. But a moment later he jerked to a stop when a sudden, sharp pain stabbed the sole of his foot.

Muttering a curse, he checked out the floor. Shards of glass glinted in the morning sun streaming through the kitchen window. As he watched, blood began to ooze from beneath his foot.

He’d stepped right into the middle of the mess he’d created last night.

The juices in his stomach congealed.

A cut foot he could handle.

But like every gambler he’d ever met, he believed in omens.

And this wasn’t a good one.

“Want anything out of the vending machine?” Cole stretched and rose from the table in the conference room he and Mitch had commandeered. “It’s way past lunchtime.”

“Yeah.” Mitch rubbed the back of his neck and surveyed the piles of paper in front of him. “Anything with sugar—and caffeine. Chocolate would work. I need an energy boost.”

“I thought Navy SEALs ate healthier than that.”

Mitch grinned. “Another myth busted.” He patted his midsection. “Actually, my disciplined eating regime has gone to pot since I met Alison. She’s a great cook.”

“Yeah—despite her lousy coffee. But you don’t look like you’re overindulging.”

“That’s because I’ve increased my daily lap count. The pool has become my second home since your sister started stuffing my face.”

Cole rolled his eyes. “Don’t expect any sympathy from me. I subsist on bachelor fare. Trust me, I wouldn’t mind having someone cook for me once in a while.”

“Didn’t Kelly make you dinner one night? How are
her
kitchen skills?” Mitch grinned at him.

Cole kept his expression neutral. “It was a very impromptu meal.”

“Are you telling me she nuked a microwave dinner for you?”

Hardly. Those lemon bars he’d wolfed down as he’d driven away had been amazing—just like the rest of the dinner she’d prepared.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Mitch’s grin broadened.

Cole flattened the smile teasing his lips and shot him a disgruntled look as he edged toward the door. “You sure you don’t want anything more than a candy bar?”

“Nope. I’m going to Alison’s tonight for that lasagna. I want to save up my calories.”

Cole leaned his forehead against the door frame and groaned. “Go ahead. Rub it in.”

“You’re welcome to join us. She’s making a whole pan. There will be plenty. And she was just saying yesterday she hasn’t heard much from you lately and that the two of you need to catch up.”

He knew what that meant. His sister wanted to grill him. Weighing the benefit of a home-cooked meal against a third-degree interrogation about his faith or his love life, he decided the cons outweighed the pros.

“Let’s see what’s going on by the end of the day.” With that hedge, he made a quick exit.

His stomach rumbling a protest against the late lunch, Cole barreled down the hall, intent on getting to the vending machines as soon as possible. But as he rounded a corner he almost ran Alan over.

“Whoa! Sorry.” He grinned and did a quick sidestep. “Don’t tell any of the street cops or they’ll cite me for a moving violation.”

His attempt at humor was met with an annoyed frown. “Why is everyone always in a hurry?”

Cole’s smile faded as he gave Alan an assessing sweep. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and the tan he’d sported a couple of weeks ago had faded into an unhealthy gray pallor. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his colleague was coming off a wild night of drinking. But even at a Friday night happy hour, Alan never indulged in more than a beer or two.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” The man wiped a hand down his face and made an obvious effort to pull himself together. “I didn’t get much sleep this weekend.”

“How’s the homicide investigation coming?”

“It’s not. The leads I’ve been chasing have turned into dead ends. What’s happening with the Warren case?”

Cole shifted and shoved his hands in his pockets. Alan’s stiff posture in the meeting with Paul yesterday had clearly communicated his displeasure about being pulled off the case.

“Nothing new. We’re just fact-finding right now. I’m hoping to be ready to call Rossi by tomorrow and set up a meeting for Monday.”

“It’s gonna be tough to pin anything on him.” He propped a shoulder against the wall, as if overcome by weariness. “There was nothing at the crime scene to tie him to the death. I suspect he’s a pro at evading the law and keeping jobs like that—
if
he was behind it—at arm’s length.”

“He made enough mistakes to land in prison, though.”

What little color remained in the man’s face seeped out. “True.”

“Look . . . are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you picked up that flu bug that’s been going around.”

“Nah.” He pushed off from the wall. “Just tired. Let me know what’s happening on the Warren case, okay? I don’t like loose ends.”

“Sure. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“How’s the daughter holding up?”

“Okay for now. I did convince her to beef up the security at her house. Her window and door locks were pathetic.”

“Yeah, I remember noticing that when I stopped there a couple of times during the investigation to talk to her. With Rossi involved, it doesn’t hurt to take extra precautions.” He sighed. “Well, back to the salt mines.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I think I’m gonna need it.” Raising his hand in farewell, he continued down the hall.

Cole followed his progress for a few seconds, then continued toward the vending machines. He didn’t get more than three steps before his cell began to vibrate.

Hunger kept him moving as he pulled it off his belt, but he smiled when he noted the caller.

“Hi, Kelly. I was just talking about you.”

“Saying nice things, I hope.”

“Always.”

“Thanks.” She cleared her throat, and he could picture her blushing—a trait made more endearing by its rarity in today’s world. “I just wanted to let you know all the locks are in place. The installer was very thorough, so I should be well protected. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of how the ones on the basement windows work, but I’ll figure it out. I don’t open them often, anyway.”

“You want me to stop by after work and take a look? I’ve had plenty of experience with all kinds of window locks.”

The ill-advised offer was out before he could stop it. If he wanted to keep their relationship strictly professional until her father’s case was resolved, trumping up excuses to see her wasn’t smart.

Her tone suggested she was as surprised as he was by the invitation. “I hate to put you out.”

She was giving him a chance to retract the offer. He should take it.

Except he didn’t.

“I pass close to your house anyway. It’s not a problem.”

“In that case, I accept—as long as you let me feed you again. I even baked some pumpkin bars in the spirit of the upcoming holiday. They were my dad’s favorite.”

Despite the forced brightness of her last comment, he heard the slight catch in her voice at the end. Any lingering inclinations to recant his offer evaporated.

“That sounds great. Thank you. Look for me by six.”

“I will. And Cole—thank you.” Her soft expression reflected an emotion deeper than gratitude.

Or was that just wishful thinking?

He cleared his throat, reminding himself not to get carried away. Yet. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you soon.”

As he ended the call, Cole scanned the vending machine offerings and selected a Mr. Goodbar for Mitch. The man would get his requested chocolate, but at least the peanuts would provide a little protein. He punched the button for a granola bar for himself.

Snacks in hand, he rejoined Mitch and tossed his colleague’s candy bar on the table. Mitch ripped off the paper, eyeing the granola bar as Cole sat.

“Trying to make me feel guilty?”

“If the shoe fits . . .” He lifted one shoulder and bit into the chewy bar as he pulled a stack of material on Rossi’s family toward him.

“I know. You’re saving your calories for Alison’s lasagna.”

“Nope. I’m going to pass.” He pulled out a sheet on Rossi’s son that looked interesting.

“Better offer?”

He glanced up. The more he worked with Mitch, the more impressed he was by the man’s intuitive sixth sense. Not a bad asset for a SEAL—or a detective.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Heading to Kelly’s?”

Cole squinted at him, as annoyed as he was intrigued. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Read between the lines.”

“Elementary, my dear Cole. Any man who skipped lunch and could still pass up Alison’s lasagna has to have either a fabulous meal or a beautiful woman waiting for him. Maybe both.”

“You know, we should make a great team with Rossi. Between your keen perception and my inestimable interrogation skills, we may come away with some excellent insights.”

Mitch smirked and lifted what was left of his candy bar in salute. “I’ll eat to that. And have fun tonight. I’ll give Alison your regrets. Not that you have any.”

For a moment, Cole thought about responding. Decided against it.