Becoming Rain
PROLOGUE
CLARA
It’s a modest Seattle suburban home, with two stories, steep gables, and cream-colored siding. A row of artless bushes lines the walkway, courtesy of the builder’s unimaginative landscaping. It looks exactly like the house to its left and too similar to the house to its right.
And yet the number above the garage marks this house as altogether unique.
I hunch down in the passenger seat of the cruiser, just enough to spy the glow from the second floor through the cold drizzle. A bay window frames the blond woman swaying, the little boy curled within her arms, his cheek resting against her shoulder in a way that suggests he’s asleep.
“Where are they going to go?” I ask, eyeing the large “For Sale” sign staked into the front lawn. Just another thing for the neighborhood to look at as they throw sympathetic glances on their way by.
“She can’t make the mortgage,” Officer Burk confirms through a casual sip of coffee, its pungent aroma filling the car’s interior. “Her parents have a farm outside the city. Sounds like that’s where they’re heading.”
“He had no life insurance? Nothing?”
“She had to take a loan out on the house just to pay for the funeral.”
A dull pang throbs in my chest as I watch Betty-Jo Billings drift over to the window, listless eyes resting on the driveway below, where puddles of water pool in the indents formed by the tires that used to sit there. The exact place where her husband waved to her for the last time before climbing into the passenger side of his cherry-red Ford F-250. The truck he had advertised for sale on Craigslist. The truck he was allowing a prospective buyer to test drive.
Seattle police found Wayne Billings’s body fourteen days later in a city dump. The truck hasn’t turned up and it probably never will. No witnesses to interrogate, except for Wayne’s wife, and all they could get from her was that the driver wore a baseball hat and he was dropped off by someone in a dark sedan. She hadn’t been paying any real attention and I understand why. With a two-year-old hanging off her leg and a three-week-old baby in her arms, the poor woman was asleep on her feet, exhausted. When Wayne left, all she was probably thinking about was the family-friendly minivan they would buy with the cash from the truck.
The wipers swish back and forth in a monotonous song and heat blasts out from the dashboard to counter the chill in the damp spring air. I arrived on the West Coast one week ago and, though locals swear it’s not usually this bad, it hasn’t stopped raining.
I don’t mind it at all. I find it soothing, actually.
“It’s a real shame. Everyone says he was a decent guy. His kids will never get to find out,” Burk murmurs in that wearied voice that tells me that this is just another case to him. He has succumbed to the job. It’s not his fault; it’s how many cops learn to deal with the kinds of things we see every day.
Detachment.
The case sits open, but the local police force has pretty much written it off. I knew that the second I made the request for the files. Under a generic guise of a Washington, D.C., cop researching similar cases on the East Coast, of course. None of these guys knows why I’m really here.
I peer up at the little boy’s angelic face again.
And make a silent promise that Rust Markov—and anyone tied to him—will pay.
Becoming Rain
ONE
LUKE
I drop my glass onto the table with a heavy thud. “Miller can go. I’m ready to run the shop on my own.”
Uncle Rust’s eyes wander over an attractive woman passing by, on her way to the restrooms of The Cellar, her hips swaying in rhythm with the throbbing bass. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”
The mouthful of vodka barely quells the bitterness ready to leap from my tongue. “Seriously? What else do I need to do? Haven’t I proven myself yet?” I stare hard at him as he rolls his drink around inside his cheeks. Rust has always shown patience with me, but that’s a sign that his tolerance with my drunken persistence is running thin.
“All good things come to those who wait.”
“I have waited. Hell, I’ve done more than wait. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do! Do you think I enjoyed changing tires and going home every night stinking of motor oil?”
He drops a hand down on my shoulder, slightly too hard. “All part of the plan, Luke.”
The plan. Rust starting singing “the plan” song to me when I was thirteen. He pulled into our driveway one day, in his latest ride—a silver Cadillac—and dressed in a sharp-looking suit, and I told him I wanted to be just like him. I still remember his words. “Listen to me, kid, and I’ll set you up for life.”
Eleven years later, I’m beginning to wonder if he really meant it.
“Yeah, well, maybe you can enlighten me on this master plan of yours so I have a better handle on it. Like, why I’m looking at Miller’s ugly face across a desk and taking his bullshit. You said the garage would be mine by now.” Facing off against the current manager of Rust’s Garage—an overweight, under-groomed jerk who barks orders at me like I’m his personal bitch—every day for the past two months since Rust moved me from the mechanics bays to the office as “associate manager” is wearing on my nerves. Miller’s no idiot. He expects that at some point his fat ass will be evicted from that squeaky office chair to make room for me, and he’s been making me suffer for it since the day my feet hit that dirty concrete floor.
“I need Miller there.”
“Until when?”
“Until I say so.”
“And then what?” Rust keeps telling me I’m smart, I’m going to go far. I assume “going far” means more than the glory of filing paperwork, ordering parts, and being called “Nurse Boone” by a bunch of greasy mechanics for the rest of my life.
The revenue from the garage isn’t bankrolling Rust’s high-end lifestyle; that much I know. Neither does RTM International, the online vehicles sales company he co-owns, though that company puts him on the map as a legitimate global businessman.
I have a pretty good idea where his money comes from by now.
But he has yet to admit anything to me and, until he does, I’m nothing more than an errand boy. He can be such a secretive son of a bitch, even when it comes to family.
“I just . . .” I try to bite my tongue, but the dam breaks anyway. “Stop dangling this big plan in front of me like a diamond-encrusted carrot.”
I get a sour smirk in response. “How about you stop whining like a pissy brat and spend all this energy establishing yourself as a leader. Run the garage as well as Miller does. Better than Miller. Learn how to deal with people. You’ll meet all kinds when you’re in charge and you’ve got to be personable and keep them all happy, kid. I didn’t build up that place so you can drive it into the ground with your smart mouth.”
Same old spiel. “It’s hard to believe that’s really so important, considering you’ve got King Kong Grouch dealing with the customers right now.” Rust knows he doesn’t have to worry about my personality. I’m Prince Charming, for fuck’s sake. Just, maybe not after this much vodka . . .
“The customers come back. Plus, he has the guys’ respect.”
“That’s not respect. That’s working for a paycheck under constant threat. The dickhead told me he’d cut an hour from my pay today for being late. To my own fucking shop!”
“It’s still my fucking shop,” Rust throws back, his tone warning.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine. But I need to start making real money, Rust. My own money.”
“You aren’t exactly suffering. I’ve taken good care of you.” His manicured fingertip taps the face of my gold Rolex—a hand-me-down from him when he upgraded last year. It’s part of the long list of gifts and cash that he’s easily doled out and I’ve gratefully accepted, just as easily as a son would accept something from his father. Because that’s the role Rust has played since I was six years old, ever since my dad skipped out on my mom, little sister, and me.
I lean back against my bench, trying to decide if this argument is worth it. I know I can’t win. Rust’s an unmovable bastard when he wants to be. “I’m just tired of Miller’s crap,” is all I say. I’m tired of punching in and out every day, of working Saturdays. It’s a sucker’s life and it’s not one I have any interest in living. It’s the one Rust promised me I wouldn’t have to live.
A harsh chuckle escapes Rust. “You’re only twenty-four years old. You’ve got too many years to go to be tired of people’s crap already. Go on . . .” He waves a lazy hand back toward the common area of the club—we’re sitting in the VIP section, as usual. It’s packed with bodies and thrumming with deep-bass trance music. “It’s a busy night here. Why don’t you cheer yourself up with a bliad.”
I roll my eyes. Go find a whore and get laid. Classic Rust advice when he’s trying to blow me off. Sometimes I listen. It’s never hard to find one. Not in this place, not looking the way I do. Like money. That’s what these kinds of girls like. And I’ve never minded playing the part of a guy who has it if the night ends with one of them naked and on her back in front of me.
I down the rest of my drink and flick the empty glass across the table. “I’m going home.”
“Probably a good idea. You’re obnoxious tonight. Doubt you’d impress anyone in your state.”
I have no interest in impressing anyone tonight. Not even Priscilla—a bartender and a sure thing, if she hasn’t already dug her claws into a true high roller for the night. “When you hear that I’ve beaten Miller to death with that fucking stapler of his, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I slide out of our booth to the sound of Rust’s booming laughter. Pushing my way through the crowd, I keep my head down to avoid all conversation.
A sudden splash of cold liquid hits my chest, doing nothing to cool my simmering rage.
Becoming Rain
TWO
CLARA
“I’m so sorry!” I peer up through the dim club lighting to take in his face. It’s angular and masculine. He’s far prettier than the pictures do justice. And, by the deep furrow and the clenched teeth, he’s also oh so pissed.
He’s too busy glaring at the tumbler’s worth of Coke that I just dumped all over his steel-blue shirt to even bother a glance up at me. “Fucking perfect,” I hear him mumble.
“Let me get that dry cleaned for you. Please,” I offer, my voice a seductive purr, hoping the view down the front of this slutty overpriced dress will finally grab his attention. I place my hand flat against his stomach as I step into his personal space. Physical contact usually works.
Instead, he shoulders past me, pushing through the crowded bar and toward the exit.
Shit. I didn’t nurse a drink on this bar stool for the past two hours with the better part of my breasts on display so this asshole could ignore me.
Again.
Tossing a twenty on the counter, which will more than cover my bill, I weave through the other patrons, trying not to be too obvious as I chase after him. He’s at least two hundred pounds of muscle and he’s carrying himself well, but I watched him chug six glasses of vodka. He’s got to be drunk.
By the time I get up the narrow stairs of the underground club to the side street, Luke Boone is in the back of a cab and speeding off, leaving me staring at the taillights as they disappear around a corner, my ever-growing frustration weighing down on my shoulders.
“Strike five for Rain Martines,” I mutter, picking my way along the sidewalk in my painful stilettos to where my white Audi sits. “ ‘It’ll be easy,’ they said . . .” I slam the door shut behind me. “ ‘He’ll be all over you.’ ” I start the engine and lean back against the headrest. And sigh. “This isn’t going to work.”
My phone rings in response.
“Who told you this would be easy?” Warner’s heavy Boston accent fills the car’s speakers as it kicks into Bluetooth mode. “Don’t give up just yet, Clara. What happened tonight?”
I fumble with the gold dragonfly pendant around my neck until I feel the minuscule switch on the back. I flick it, deactivating the listening device. “You heard what happened.”
“Walk me through it. Step by step.”
I pull out of the parking lot and make the five-minute drive home, filling my handler in on the night’s events: how I watched my target stride to the booth—the same booth in the VIP section that he always sits at—as if he were on a mission, pour glass after glass of vodka from the bottle and toss it back, get into what looked like a heated conversation with his uncle, and then suddenly stand up and storm through the crowd.
How I did the first thing I could think of to stop him. “He didn’t even look at me,” I admit and, after a long pause, add, “I’m not his type, Warner.” Despite the posh outfit and the top-to-bottom grooming I’ve undergone to transform into the prototype of what Luke Boone typically brings home, I have yet to earn so much as a sideways glance from him.
“Yeah, you are. He just hasn’t laid eyes on you yet.”
“And probably never will, at this rate.”
“Impossible.”
I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “How many nights can I hang around that club, dressed like an escort, before you guys realize that you’ve got the wrong undercover on this?” It pains me to admit that.
“Fifteen minutes. Your place.” The phone line cuts out, leaving me to brood over my impending failure alone.
Weeks of case preparation, down the drain. I don’t know what I was thinking. When my boss called me in to his corner office and introduced me to the man in the suit filling the spare chair, my life changed. Assistant Director Josh Sinclair wanted me. Or, more appropriately, the FBI wanted me—twenty-six-year-old Officer Clara Bertelli from the Washington, D.C., Major Crime Unit. They had a big case, one that stretched internationally, one they’ve been working for eighteen months.
After two failed attempts to infiltrate the group, they were trying a new strategy and it required a very specific profile. One that they failed to find in their database of FBI agents, so they were reaching beyond their organization, as they sometimes do. They had been searching for a suitable undercover for weeks, and then my file hit their radar and winning bells went off.
My youthful look, my cool demeanor, my impeccable arrest record, my compelling court testimonials, even my diligent case notes . . . Sinclair said I was exactly what they were looking for. Then he asked me if I was interested in being a part of what could be one of the biggest car theft ring busts in U.S. history.
My own set of winning bells went off.
I didn’t give it a moment’s thought before I answered with an exuberant “Hell, yeah.”
But maybe I should have considered it a bit more. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed it’d be as easy as a hooker sweep or busting some idiot john. All I thought about was what this could mean to my career if I succeeded—ideally a job in the Bureau, exactly where I want to be. A bit of my own digging uncovered that Assistant Director Sinclair is the kind of guy that can make that happen.
Maybe I should have considered what it would mean if I failed, where I could land if I don’t pull this off. A very likely possibility, if the past few weeks have been any indication.
I park my Audi in my private garage, appreciating the luxury car’s handling ease. Part of my undercover persona and definitely one of the perks, as is everything else that now surrounds me. Back home, my real life consists of a drafty one-bedroom apartment with cracked tiles and a squeaky fridge, a ’95 Jeep Wrangler with more miles on it than a retired cargo plane, and chain store clothing bought at 50 percent off. Sixty grand a year with student loan debt hardly buys me more. I’m not complaining—I’ve always loved my job and my life.
But then I take a smooth ride in this mirrored elevator that will lead me to the top floor with the slip of a key and step into “my” loft-style designer condo—with the computerized control panel for the lighting and sound system to my left, floor-to-ceiling windows to my right, and everything from Miele kitchen appliances to Brazilian walnut floors and travertine tile in between—and I get to experience how the other side lives. A lifestyle I will never afford to have on a regular cop salary.
I have to admit, it’ll be hard to leave some of this behind.
Kicking off my shoes, I head over to the wall of windows and take a peek out around the shades that are always drawn. A few condos in the twin boutique loft building next to mine are still lit, but most sit in darkness. There’s only one I really care about, though.
The one with my target in it.
Maybe the Feds thought this would be a cute, kismet story for Rust Markov’s nephew and me to giggle over when I finally succeeded in winning his attention—the fact that we have a perfect view into each other’s lavish homes. I certainly do, anyway. Luke doesn’t seem to believe in drawing window covers, regardless of time or state of dress. I haven’t yet figured out whether it’s due to ignorance or arrogance.
Flashes of light from the TV on the wall fill his living room, each burst highlighting his body, now clad in nothing but boxer briefs and a T-shirt. As with every other night for the past few weeks, I watch him drop down to the white shag rug and begin the nightly regime of crunches and push-ups that give him those hardened muscles. Without fail, drunk or not, he will go through this routine, his bulldog stretched out next to his head, tongue lolling. I’ve caught my own tongue lolling once or twice, when I had a brief lapse in memory and forgot what Luke Boone really is. For all else that he may be, he has a body and face for magazine covers.
Too bad he’s a budding criminal.
At least, that’s the assumption. That’s why I’m here.
I wonder if the women he brings home know. Or care. I’m guessing not. They’re not the type to care about much except what he can buy them. From what I’ve seen in the reports, the joke’s on them because this guy doesn’t wine and dine anyone. He’s after only one thing and he gets it. Thankfully, on the few nights I’ve witnessed a “guest” trail him through the door, the women had enough modesty to draw the blinds in his bedroom.
With a heavy sigh of frustration, I head to the pretty watercolor painting that hides my safe. I pull the case files for 12—our code name for Luke Boone—out, dropping them on the coffee table, one hand on my zipper as I head to the bedroom to peel off this uncomfortable dress and change into sweats.
I come back to find a six-foot shadow at my window, stealing the same glance across the way at our target that I had not five minutes ago. “Would you stop using your key? I could have been naked.”
“I was hoping,” Warner throws back over his shoulder.
I offer up a bottle of Chianti. He waves it away, instead helping himself to a can of Harpoon—a Boston I.P.A. beer that he insists on stocking in my fridge—before dropping his big body into my white leather sectional.
I flop into the couch next to him. “I just don’t know . . .”
“What don’t you know, Bertelli?” Warner stretches long legs out over my coffee table, fanning the thick folder of surveillance notes that I just set down over the glass. “That you’re a smart cop? That you were handpicked by the F.B.I. for a reason?”
I smile, giving his knee a friendly pat. “I can always count on you for a motivational pep talk.”
“We all knew this wouldn’t be a cakewalk.”
“No, I know. I just . . .” I yawn, the adrenaline that kept me wired through the night finally seeping from my body, leaving me weary. “We’ve been pinning all our plans on the expectation that 12’s going to fall to his knees at the sight of me. Dog me around and tell me whatever I want to know. That’s clearly not the case.” I won’t lie; privately, it’s a hit to my ego. I’ve never had a hard time attracting a target’s attention. With my long, wavy chestnut hair, olive skin, and light blue eyes, we all assumed I was Luke Boone’s type. On paper, I am. But either something else is at play or I just don’t quite fit into the lineup of gold-digging beauties.
Warner sucks back a mouthful of beer, his face pensive. “You said he was fighting with 24 tonight?” The Feds are so clever with their code names.
“Looked that way.”
Warner shrugs. “Drunk . . . arguing with the uncle . . . last thing he’s in the mood for is putting any work into a woman.”
“I guess . . . But what about last time?” He hadn’t noticed me last week either, and I had made sure my steps were as slow and purposeful as a peacock’s as I strutted past his table on my way to the restroom, my provocative dress clinging to my ass.
“He took the bartender home.” Warner stares at me like that answer says it all. Finally, my blank look compels him to elaborate. “Guaranteed lay with no effort and no hassle. He obviously wanted something easy that night.”
I roll my eyes. “He definitely had that.” And I got an eyeful, making it home just in time to see her do a Full Monty sashay to the bedroom blinds to draw them. Months’ worth of surveillance—pictures, written reports, videos—mark Priscilla Grishin as Boone’s “go-to girl.” Nothing more, nothing less. They’re certainly not exclusive. “I’m just not sure this is going to work. I mean . . . these women . . .” I let my words drift off. These women, they’re not common prostitutes working to pay their rent, like the ones I normally deal with. Like the ones I’ve learned to emulate. These ones stalk through life with their stunning faces and perfect figures—either naturally granted or acquired with the help of a plastic surgeon—with the single goal of climbing the boyfriend ladder until they reach the top and become the wife of a rich husband who will cater to their every high-maintenance need.
They’re vapid.
Insecure.
Unkind.
I can’t stand their type. And I can’t stand the kind of guys who are attracted to them.
“These women ain’t got nothin’ on you, kid.” His eyes dip down to survey my body, which, while well cut from a strict gym regime, can’t possibly look appealing right now.
I smack his stomach, a smile creeping out from behind my frustrations. At thirty, FBI Special Agent Warner Briggs is what a lot of women look for in their ideal man. Tall, athletic build, dark hair, square jaw. As charming as a southern boy, though he grew up in South Boston. Extremely successful. The first day he was introduced to me as my handler and lead cover on this case, I’ll admit I took a second glance. He certainly did the same of me.
But I won’t let my career or my goals get derailed by flings with coworkers and I have no interest in dating another cop. That just has disaster written all over it. Female officers already have it hard enough, without adding on opportunities to be accused of sleeping our way to the top. Besides, Warner has quickly become a friend and sounding board. Something I need far more desperately than a good lay.
“Come on, Warner. Honestly, between you and me . . . what did they think was going to happen if I actually managed to grab 12’s attention? Look at his file!” I gesture at it. Three months of gathering intel on Luke Boone. Five one-night stands. Three overnight visits with his bartender. “The guy’s not looking for a wife. He’s not looking for romance, or even great conversation. He’s bringing them home for the one thing I won’t give him! They would have been better off with an informant for this. At least they’re not bound by the same rules.”
Warner barks out a laugh. “Come on, Clara! Sinclair’s not gonna use an informant for a role like this. They’re too unreliable. Winning this case will move him up in rank, and Sinclair’s all about rank.” He stretches an arm over the back of the couch in a playful way. “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. All you have to do is string twelve along. Let him think that he’s got a shot at you. That you’re special.”
“I am special,” I mutter, earning his snort. “But this isn’t a guy you can string along. He’s not into virginal girls and he’s not looking to make money off me.” In hindsight, how the Feds thought putting an undercover on this target with the hopes of luring him with mere words and seductive gestures is beyond me. Desperation—that’s the only explanation I can come up with. They have plenty of evidence at the low level but nothing connecting it all, nothing concrete enough to pull the entire organization down. Not to mention two failed efforts by undercover agents to gain a foothold into the top level, attempting to earn their trust and friendship.
Apparently, neither Rust Markov nor Luke Boone is interested in making new male friends. Female “friends,” however . . .
Warner shrugs. “You say whatever you need to say to hook him.”
I sigh, knowing that Warner’s not going to give me the satisfaction of agreeing. He’s 100 percent committed to the job. “Well, I can’t sit in that bar week after week. People are going to start noticing.”
“I’ll get the guys to rotate. Make it look like they’re hiring you for the night.”
I shake my head. “Too risky. None of the girls 12 takes home are escorts. That may turn him off.”
“Okay then . . .” He leans forward to scoop up the case files, tossing them onto my lap. “What’s gonna work? You’re the one with your neck on the line. You’re looking to go Fed. This is a big deal for you. So you tell me . . .” He stabs the stack of paper with his index finger. “What’s our next move, boss?”
That’s one of the things I like most about Warner. He could be an arrogant, condescending dick. The big-show FBI agent versus a mere metro cop pawn. But he’s been nothing but a team player from day one. In fact, he reminds me a lot of the guys I work with back home. A tight group who take every opportunity to joke around and let loose, knowing how much we all need the release from what we see in our day-to-day.
Sipping on my wine, I start flipping through the pages of candid shots. Luke Boone is a decidedly handsome target by anyone’s standards, with wavy caramel-brown hair that he styles in a sexy mop and clothing that’s tailored to a well-honed body, courtesy of daily jogs with his dog and workouts in his building’s gym.
Son of Oksana Boone, single mother to him and his younger sister, Ana Boone. Biological father’s whereabouts unknown.
Nephew of Rust Markov, who has raised him like a son, footing his tuition for a bachelor’s degree in business, followed by two years in a mechanics program. The nephew of a man pegged as the leader behind one of the West Coast’s biggest car theft rings by a confidential informant avoiding heroin-dealing charges. The nephew who seems glued to his uncle’s side, who is now stepping into a managerial role at one of Rust’s legitimate businesses—a car repair garage—and who lives in a million-dollar condo that his uncle gifted to him, either out of the goodness of his heart or to protect his assets.
The nephew who the Feds believe is being groomed to step into a leadership role in the car theft operation.
“Be thankful. He could have been your target.” Warner taps a shot of Rust Markov leaving his office one afternoon. A man I can’t wait to see stripped of his Versace suits and sleeping in a bunk bed behind bars for a very long time.
“Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve had.” At forty-five years old, Rust’s fit and by no means bad looking. Likes younger women, from what I know. “May have been easier.”
“No, it wouldn’t. 24’s smart. You need the dumb nephew. Kid’s too new. Get him comfortable, get him drunk . . . He’ll slip and, when he does, we’ve got him.”
“I just don’t know what the best way in is with this guy. I don’t think it’s the bar scene.”
Heaving himself off my couch, Warner strolls over to the kitchen to drop his empty on the counter. “We have a few more weeks before the warrant’s up. Sleep on it. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
“ ’kay. Night,” I call out as the condo door shuts. As tired as I am, I know that the stress of looming failure—of being sent back to D.C. to bust pimps and drug addicts—is going to keep me up. I’m half-tempted to drink wine until I pass out, but I’ll only feel worse tomorrow. Not that I have anywhere that I need to be.
So I start flipping through the case files, beginning to end, like I’ve done over a hundred times. Luke Boone’s schedule is pretty basic: he’s either at the garage, at a club with his uncle, working out, or “entertaining” one female or another. There have been no reports of him disappearing into warehouses or storefronts at erratic hours of the night. The team’s never lost track of him in the few hours per day that they’re on him. Unlike his Uncle Rust, who continuously slides through their surveillance detail like a bar of wet soap.
Frankly, there’s no solid evidence that Luke Boone has any involvement with this ring. Only speculation. Enough to get a sixty-day warrant from the judge. I need to spend time with him to get a better read. Surveillance tapes and reports give me only background. They help me to speculate about what he might respond best to.
So far, all of our speculations have been wrong.
Closing the file, I pack everything back up into the hidden safe and pull out my personal phone, checking it for any messages. My parents are aware that I’ll be away for an indefinite amount of time on a case. That’s all they know, though, and that’s all I can tell them. As far as my mother is concerned, I’m only ever sitting at a desk, working behind-the-scenes detail. If she knew what I was actually doing—the kind of danger I put myself in on a daily basis—she’d beg me to quit with tears in her eyes and Sicilian prayers rolling off her tongue.
If they could see me now . . . This loft is a far cry from the small, semi-detached house they’ve owned for the past thirty-one years, complete with the original stiff-backed floral couches and the large vegetable garden they tend to in the backyard. It’s nothing special, and yet it’s their dream come true after immigrating to America from a small town outside Palermo, Sicily, with nothing but one suitcase of clothes and my grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. It took almost ten years and at least four honest jobs between the two of them at all times—my mother in bakeries, my father as a janitor—to scrounge up enough money for the down payment.
My brother Dino, older than me by eleven years, remembers those years being tough. Socks with darned toes and jeans with patches in the knees, used toys for Christmas, summer vacations at local parks. Cold winters, to save on electric bills.
By the time I came along—an accident when my parents were in their mid-thirties—they were living in luxury by comparison.
Still, it’s nothing like what I’m living right now.
No calls from the family tonight, which doesn’t bother me. I talk to them enough. A few texts from my girlfriend Aubrey, telling me about the upcoming girls’ weekend that I won’t be going to because I’m 2,300 miles away. It bothers me a little bit but I’m used to it. I miss a lot of birthdays and holidays and getaways because of my job.
What I still haven’t gotten used to is not seeing a message from David, my latest ex-boyfriend. Nine months of messages all day—every day—until I came home with a black eye and busted lip from a takedown and he decided that he can’t handle being with a cop.
I really liked this one, too. I thought he might be different. Stronger.
I thought I’d prove my police college instructor and that author with her PhD label wrong. That keeping a relationship in this field isn’t as hard as they made it out to be. I still have that stupid paperback that they handed us in class, about loving a cop. It’s at home, collecting dust. At first I thought it was a joke, until I started flipping through the pages and digesting everything I should expect in the years to come. How the long shifts and overtime coupled with the daily hazards earn this field high divorce rates. How the things I see every day make it hard for me to carry on a normal dinner conversation. How I’ll have a difficult time meeting men to begin with because of all the trust issues I’ll develop, dealing with liars all day long. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I pushed it off as a stereotype that wouldn’t fit me. I hoped that being aware of the challenges would prepare me enough to avoid them.
The dozen or so failed relationships since then have proven that little pocket book not so stupid after all.
My mentor—a staff sergeant in her early forties, who’s been divorced twice now—only validated it by warning me to expect a whole lot of heartbreak before I find the right relationship. If I ever do. Dating a female cop may be a fantasy involving handcuffs and wild sex, but marrying one isn’t a reality most guys can stomach. The day she told me that, three days after David ended things, I went home and cried into a bottle of red wine.
With one last gun check—a habit more than anything else—I lock everything back up into the safe and head for bed. My mind is still spinning, in search of the way into Luke Boone’s life. I have only a few shots at this before accidental run-ins become too much of a coincidence.
Another glimpse past my bedroom blinds finds him now stretched out on his back, a flurry of cars racing across his television screen. His arm is wrapped around his dog’s body, and he’s stroking its belly with slow, affectionate movements.
When I look at him, all I see is just another twenty-four-year-old guy. A guy I might meet at a party or at the club. A guy my friends and I would definitely notice, would probably drool over. Who I’d gladly give my number to. A guy I’d go home with if I had one too many drinks and needed a release.
A guy I wouldn’t believe could be involved in something that left two children without a father.
But that’s the thing with so many of the worst kinds of criminals. They don’t wear signs, they don’t don a uniform. They’re hiding in plain sight. It’s my job to reveal Luke for what he truly is, which will reveal the man we’re really after—his uncle.
But how?
Women. Dogs. Cars. Three things that seem to grab Luke’s attention.
I’m an attractive, smart, confident woman—you have to be both smart and confident in a job like mine or you could end up dead—so I have that going for me. You also have to be a little crazy, but I hide that well. Maybe the issue isn’t me; maybe it’s the surroundings.
I need to find a better place to meet. A place he can’t possibly miss me.
Yes.
I hit “one” on my phone’s speed dial. Warner picks up almost immediately.
“Hey, I think I have an idea.” I smile. “But it involves messing around with that beautiful car of mine.”
Burying Water
PROLOGUE
JESSE
NOW
This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . . This can’t be real . . .
The words cycle round and round in my mind like the wheels on my speeding ’Cuda as its ass-end slips and slides over the gravel and ice. This car is hard to handle on the best of days, built front-heavy and overloaded with horsepower. I’m going to put myself into one of these damn trees if I don’t slow down.
I jam my foot against the gas pedal.
I can’t slow down now.
Not until I know that Boone was wrong about what he claims to have overheard. His Russian is mediocre at best. I’ll give anything for him to be wrong about this.
My gut clenches as my car skids around another turn, the cone shape of Black Butte looming like a monstrous shadow ahead of me in the pre-dawn light. The snowy tire tracks framed by my headlights might not even be the right ones, but they’re wide like Viktor’s Hummer and they’re sure as hell the only ones down this old, deserted logging road. No one comes out here in January.
The line of trees marking the dead end comes up on me before I expect it. I slam on my brakes, sending my car sliding sideways toward the old totem pole. It’s still sliding when I cut the rumbling engine, throw open the door, and jump out, fumbling with my flashlight. It takes three hard presses with my shaking hands to get the light to hold.
I begin searching the ground. The mess of tread marks tells me that someone pulled a U-turn. The footprints tell me that more than one person got out. And when I see the half-finished cigarette butt with that weird alphabet on the filter, I know Boone wasn’t wrong.
“Alex!” My echo answers once . . . twice . . . before the vast wilderness swallows up my desperate cry. With frantic passes of my flashlight, my knuckles white against its body, I search the area until I spot the sets of footprints that lead off the old, narrow road and into the trees.
Frigid fingers curl around my heart.
Darting back to my car, I snatch the old red-and-blue plaid wool blanket that she loves so much from the backseat. Ice-cold snow packs into the sides of my sneakers as I chase the trail past the line of trees and into the barren field ahead, my blood rushing through my ears the only sound I process.
The only sign of life.
Raw fear numbs my senses, the Pacific Northwest winter numbs my body, but I push forward because if . . .
The beam of light passes over a still form lying facedown in the snow. I’d recognize that pink coat and platinum-blond hair of hers anywhere; the sparkly blue dress that she hates so much looks like a heap of sapphires against a white canvas.
My heart freezes.
“Alex.” It’s barely a whisper. I’m unable to produce more, my lungs giving up on me. I run, stumbling through the foot of snow until I’m on my knees and crawling forward to close the distance. A distance of no more than ten feet and yet one that seems like miles.
There’s no mistaking the spray of crimson freckling the snow around her head. Or that most of her long hair is now dark and matted. Or that her silver stockings are torn and stained red, and a pool of blood has formed where her dress barely covers her thighs. Plenty of footprints mark the ground around her. He must have been here for a while.
I know that there are rules to follow, steps to make sure that I don’t cause her further harm. But I ignore them because the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me I can’t possibly hurt her more than he already has. I nestle her head with one hand while I slide the other under her shoulder. I roll her over.
Cold shock knocks the wind out of me.
I’ve never seen anybody look like this.
I scoop her limp body into my arms, cradling the once beautiful face that I’ve seen in every light—rage to ecstasy and the full gamut in between—yet is now unrecognizable. Placing two blood-coated fingers over her throat, I wait. Nothing.
A light pinch against her lifeless wrist. Nothing.
Maybe a pulse does exist but it’s hidden, masked by my own racing one.
Then again, by the look of her, likely not.
One . . . two . . . three . . . plump, serene snowflakes begin floating down from the unseen sky above. Soon, they will converge and cover the tracks, the blood. The evidence. Mother Nature’s own blanket to hide the unsightly blemish in her yard.
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t try to restrain the hot tears as they roll down my cheeks to land on her mangled lips—lips I had stolen plenty of kisses from, back when I was too stupid to realize how dangerous that really was. This is my fault. She had warned me. If I had just listened, had stayed away from her, had not told her how I felt . . .
. . . had not fallen wildly in love with her.
I lean down to steal a kiss even now, the coppery taste of her blood mixing with my salty tears. “I’m so damn sorry. I should never have even looked your way,” I manage to get out around my sobs, tucking the blanket she loved to curl up in over her.
An almost inaudible gasp slips out. A slight breeze against my mouth more than anything else.
My lungs freeze, my eyes glued to her, afraid to hope. “Alex?” Is it possible?
A moment later, a second gasp—a wet, rattling sound—escapes.
She’s not dead.
Not yet, anyway.
Burying Water
ONE
ALEX
IN BETWEEN
A fire.
The fragrance calls to me.
I cannot see, for my eyes are sealed shut against the wicked glow in his stare.
I cannot hear, for my ears have blocked out his appalling promises.
I cannot feel, for my body has long since shattered.
But, as I lie in the cool stillness of the night, waiting for my final peace, that comforting waft of burning bark and twigs and crispy leaves encases me.
It whispers to me that everything will be okay.
And I so desperately long to believe it.
Beep . . .
“. . . basilar skull fracture . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . collapsed lung . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . ruptured spleen . . .”
Beep . . .
“. . . frostbite . . .”
Beep . . .
Beep . . .
“Will she live?”
Beep . . .
“I honestly don’t know how she has survived this long.”
Beep . . .
“We need to keep this quiet for now.”
“Gabe, you just showed up on the doorstep of my hospital with a half-dead girl. How am I supposed to do that?”
“You just do. Call me if she wakes up. No one questions her but me. No one, Meredith.”
“Don’t try to talk yet,” someone—a woman—warns softly. I can’t see her. I can’t see anything; my lids open to mere slits, enough to admit a haze of light and a flurry of activity around me—gentle fingertips, low murmurs, papers rustling.
And then that rhythmic beep serenades me back into oblivion.
In Her Wake
Chapter 1
April 26, 2008
“Last one and then we’re heading out.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Derek’s deep voice carries over the steady thrum of house music. He hands off an empty beer bottle to a passing buddy in exchange for two full ones, tossing one to me. “It’s what,” he glances at his watch, “only twelve. And we drove an hour to get here!”
Twisting the cap off, I suck back a big gulp, the fresh, cold liquid like icy relief on a scorching day. Even though it’s April in Michigan and barely tipping the freezing mark outside, it’s sweltering hot in here. “I warned you that I wanted an early night. I’m hitting the books first thing tomorrow morning or I’m screwed.” Four finals in three days. I’m screwed either way. That’s probably why the Millers are going down so damn fast tonight. I’m definitely more relaxed than I was when we first arrived.
“You’ll be home by tomorrow morning. Until then . . .” He gives his cousin’s living room—jam-packed with a blend of college kids and locals—a once-over, stalling on two blonds who look like they could still be in high school.
“If we don’t head out soon, I’ll be a write-off and you know it.” It’s no surprise that Derek’s busting my balls to stay. He’s never been one to miss a party. Normally we have to pry him off the keg. But I only agreed to watching the hockey game—the Red Wings are in the play-offs, after all—and somehow it turned into this. If it weren’t my last Friday night in Michigan, I would have said no in the first place. “Don’t you have finals to worry about, too?”
Derek shrugs, taking another long drag of his beer and then settling his eyes on the brunette tucked into the tight space beside me on the couch. Michelle, I think she said her name was. She’s pretty and sweet, and she’s casually nudged her thigh against mine enough times for me to know she’s into me. But, even though it’s been six weeks since Madison came to visit me and I’m dying to get laid, I’m not about to cheat on my girlfriend. Especially not for a one-nighter.
I ignore Derek’s dumb smirk. “Where’s Sasha?”
He dips his head to the left. I follow his lead to where our friend stands toe-to-toe with a brawny guy wearing a blue Wolverines T-shirt, their lips moving fast and tight. If I had to guess, their little “chat” has something to do with our bowl game against the other Michigan college football team three months ago—which we won—and things are about to heat up. It doesn’t help that Sasha wore his “Spartans rule, Wolverines drool” shirt tonight, knowing we were heading into U of M territory.
“Great,” I mutter, dragging my six-foot-three-inch frame off the couch. The room sways and I stumble slightly, my foot bumping the tidy line of empties on the floor.
I’ve had way more than I planned on having in the last four hours.
Shit.
I’m the DD tonight.
I guess that means we’re stuck here for a while. And I’ve probably just fucked myself over for finals.
Wandering over to Sasha, I drop my hand on his shoulder, getting a good grip in case I have to pull him back. Sasha’s no runt, only an inch short of matching my height and, thanks to an intense off-season practice schedule, just as built. He can handle his own. I should know; we’ve been roughhousing together since we were in diapers.
“We all good here?” I eye the guy in front of him, an olive-skinned Latino with a unibrow and an intimidating scowl. I don’t recognize his face from the field. Then again, we all wear helmets and I don’t waste my time on anything but which number I need to take out.
Sasha thrusts a hand through his shaggy brown hair—almost identical to mine in color—but doesn’t answer me, eyes locked on the other guy. I’ve seen him like this before. It almost always ends up in a fight.
“Sash? Finals start next week,” I remind him. They’ll be hard enough without swollen eyes and split lips. Plus, I can’t be getting into a fight with my healing shoulder.
“Yeah.” The word drags on Sasha’s tongue and then he smirks. “We’re good. Just sharing some helpful tips. You know, the basics. Like how to throw a fucking ball to your receiver.”
I step in between them to serve as a barrier just as the other guy leans in.
Thankfully, Derek’s cousin, Rich—a big guy himself—strolls out from the kitchen then. “Take it outside. I don’t want my place trashed.”
Sasha’s hands lift, palms out, in an act of surrender. “Nothing to take outside. We’re good.” Slapping Rich’s hand in a friendly way, he leads me away. But not before tossing a wink over his shoulder at Unibrow.
I shake my head but I’m chuckling. “You’re a dick. You know that?” When you’ve lived next to a guy for eighteen years, shared hockey pucks and bloody noses and secrets about rounding bases with girls in school, you can say that without repercussions.
Sasha’s the brother I never had.
His smug smile hasn’t faded. “I know. And we probably need to get the fuck out of here now because I just gave that asshole the gears. He’s gonna pummel me soon, no doubt. I’d hit me if I were him.”
“Sorry, man. We’re stuck here for a bit. I lost track of the beers.” This sucks. I really just want to get home. Maybe Rich knows of a sober girl here that Sash can hit up. Maybe—
“I’ll drive,” Sasha offers.
“Seriously? You good?” That would make things easier.
“Yeah. I’ve been chugging water for the past hour. I’ve got finals to worry about, too.”
My body sags with relief.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward the door and holds his hand out. “Let’s go.”
“All right.” I slide the keys of my Suburban out of my jeans pocket. It’s actually my dad’s SUV. We swapped cars over spring break so I can haul back the essentials when I head home for the summer.
I toss them to Sasha.
He has to dive to catch them, taking a few quick steps to regain his balance as he stands upright. “Forgotten how to throw already?” he mutters with a grin.
¦ ¦ ¦
“Stay for summer classes!” Sasha drops the SUV into fourth gear as the quiet, dark road opens up into a long stretch toward Lansing and our apartment near the Michigan State campus. He’s still pissed that I’m going back to Rochester until July. When I told him, he didn’t talk to me for two days.
We’ve never had a choice but to stay in Lansing, what with the football summer training schedule. But then I tore my rotator cuff in the last bowl game and had to have surgery to repair it over spring break, so I’m out for the time being. Maybe for good.
Secretly, I’m happy to be going home for a while. I’m even happier that I won’t be pushing sleds uphill and running hundred-yard sprints every day at six a.m. As good as I am at the game—and I’m good, otherwise I would never have made a team like the Spartans in the first place—I never held any ambitions to go beyond college ball.
Still, Sasha and I have never been apart for more than a week.
“Nah . . . Madison would kill me if I changed my mind now.” I let my spinning head fall back against my headrest and close my eyes. I could pass out right here. Maybe I’ll get a half-decent night’s sleep tonight after all.
“She can come visit,” Sasha grumbles.
Derek’s loud bark of laughter erupts from the backseat. “You actually wanna listen to Cole givin’ it to your little sister in the room next to you?”
“Shut the fuck up, Maynard.” I crack an eye to see Sasha’s knuckles white against the steering wheel. It took Sasha the better part of a year to come to terms with me dating Madison. Four years later, he still gets uptight with any conversation that even hints at his sister getting laid.
“It’s just for a few months, bro. I’ll be back at the apartment before you know it,” I say, trying to ease Sasha’s ire.
“Well, I for one am happier than a pig in shit that you’ll be gone,” Derek announces. When I let the guys know, Derek immediately jumped on the chance to take my room. He lives with his parents in a small house just outside Lansing and, though his folks are nice, I don’t blame him for wanting some space.
I’ve known Derek for almost as long as I’ve known Sasha. Derek’s family lived with his grandparents three doors down from my parents for a few years while Derek’s dad struggled to keep a job in the failing IT industry. Apparently my mom went to welcome them—an apple pie in hand and me clinging to her leg—and Derek greeted us in a pink polka-dot dress. By choice. I don’t remember it, but Sasha and I sure as hell have teased him enough about it over the years. I’m kind of surprised he kept in touch with us after they moved to Lansing.
I chuckle. “Have at ’er. Just leave it clean.”
“Are you sure you want to agree to that, Cole?” Sasha chuckles. “You’ve seen what he picks up.”
“Hey now . . .” Derek’s warning tone only spurns Sasha on.
“What was the last one’s name? Tia? Ria?”
“Sia.”
“Sia,” Sasha echoes. “That chick was—”
¦ ¦ ¦
Hi, my name is Tara. I’m a paramedic. Can you hear me? You were in an accident. We’re going to help you.
Hi, my name is Tara. I’m a paramedic. Can you hear me? You were in an accident. We’re going to help you.
“Hi, my name is Tara. I’m a—”
“What?” The single word scratches my throat. I open my eyes to the dark sky hanging over me, flashes of red and blue light pulsing rhythmically within my peripherals. Wailing sirens assault my ears, both distant and approaching.
So many sirens.
A woman leans over me. She locks eyes with me and speaks in a calm voice. “Hi, I’m Tara. I’m a paramedic. You were in an accident. Everything is going to be okay. Can you tell me your name?”
I pause, struggling to process her words. “Cole.” It hurts to swallow.
Someone else is crouched beside me. I try to turn my head to see who it is, to figure out what’s going on.
But I can’t turn my head.
“Just hold still, Cole,” Tara says as something tightens across my chin. It’s then that I notice the stiff brace wrapped around my neck.
“What happened?”
“You were in a car accident, but don’t worry. We’re going to get you to a hospital real soon.” An ambulance’s ear-piercing wail abruptly cuts off behind me as brakes squeak.
“How bad is it?” Besides the pain in my neck, I can’t feel much of anything else.
“We just need to finish securing your neck as a precaution,” she explains, not answering my question, as the other person tightens a strap over my forehead.
Car.
I was in the car.
Who was I in the . . .
Sasha.
Derek.
“Where are they?” My eyes strain, first to the left and then to the right, but I can’t see anything. “Where are my friends?”
“Everyone is being taken care of, Cole. Do you know what month it is?”
I have finals next week. Yes. I need to get back for finals. “April.”
“Good. Who is the president of our country, Cole?”
“Bush.”
“And how old are you, Cole?”
She keeps using my name. Why does she keep doing that? “Twenty. Twenty-one in December.”
The other paramedic finishes working on the straps. Hands that I didn’t realize were holding my head in place disappear as Tara offers me a sad smile. “Do you remember where you were tonight?”
“A party. At Rich’s house.” I pause. “Where’s Derek? Sasha?”
“There are several paramedics on-site. Everyone is being taken care of.” She calls out to someone unseen, “Can we get him out of here?”
A gruff “yes” answers and suddenly I’m moving. Low voices and competing emergency lights surround me from all angles. I search with my eyes—the only part of my head that I can move besides my mouth—to catch a glimpse of something. Anything. But the straps pin me down tight.
“They’ll bring my friends to the same hospital, right?”
“They’ll get the best care possible,” Tara says, climbing into the back. Again, not really answering my question.
Just as the ambulance doors are closing, a voice crackles over a police radio nearby.
All I catch is “D.O.A.” before the locks click shut.
