Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

He turned to face her. "You're going with me," he said between clenched teeth, "if I have to pick you up and carry you. Then you'll be conspicuous." He took her arm and steered her toward the escalator.

"After your message, I took precautions. I'm not here alone." She decided not to push him any further. From what she could tell, his temper hadn't subsided at all during the past two days. He looked dangerous, his gaze hard and restless as he surveyed the people around them, and she suspected he would welcome the chance to unleash that temper on someone. Getting off the plane had taken so long that the luggage was already being unloaded. After a few minutes, the carousel chugged her suitcase around; she pointed it out, and Marc snagged it. He was parked at the curb. Another car had pulled up close behind him, and a lean, good-looking young black man stood on the sidewalk beside them, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. "See anything?" Marc asked as he stowed the suitcase in the trunk. He had put on sunglasses, too, making him look hard and expressionless.

"Nothing out of place. Everything's calm as a convent."

"Good. Karen, this is Antonio Shannon. Antonio, Karen Whitlaw."

"Pleased to meet you," Karen said. "Are you a detective, too?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Shannon smiled at her. Like Marc, he wore a jacket despite the heat. Marc opened the passenger door and ushered her into the car, his hand warm on the small of her back. The touch was so familiar, so possessive, that she shivered.

"I'll watch your six and make sure you aren't followed," Shannon said quietly to Marc.

"Thanks. I've put in a call to McPherson, but I'm routing everything through you so there won't be any direct connection to my house or my home phone."

Shannon nodded. "Got it. Go on, get her stashed. I'll handle things." Marc clapped Shannon on the shoulder in appreciation and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, he watched in the rearview mirror as Shannon did the same, falling back far enough that he could see if anyone tried to follow Marc. Shannon had good instincts, maybe a result of his military training, maybe because he was naturally sharp.

Karen cleared her throat. "Is Detective Shannon your partner?"

"Detectives in New Orleans aren't teamed. But he worked with me on your father's case, and we get along. I trust him."

"Who's McPherson?"

"Someone who might be able to give us some information. Now—" His tone was measured, but she still heard that suppressed violence beneath the control. "Tell me what happened yesterday." She did, as calmly and concisely as possible. She also told him about her previous home burning to the ground. He digested everything in silence for a minute. "Do you know the name of the bastard who entered your apartment?"

"Carl Clancy." Detective Suter had told her his name, to see if she recognized it. He indicated the bruise on her face. "He did that?"

"Yes, but the hands and the knee are courtesy of the other bastard, the hit-and-run one. Actually, my hands are just scraped. Piper put these impressive bandages on them so people would help me with my suitcase. With my sore ribs, it was difficult for me to handle it." He said something under his breath again, something vile and inventive. Karen stared straight ahead. If Marc was swearing like that, he was a volcano waiting to blow.

"I know it sounds far-fetched," she blurted. "Maybe I panicked. But twice in one day seemed a little too much for coincidence, and when I added it to my father being murdered and my old home burning, I—what's the legal term? A preponderance of evidence? That's what it felt like. Or am I being paranoid?"

"No, I don't think you're paranoid. Something else turned up on your father's case that makes me real uneasy." He checked his rearview again.

"What?" She turned around and checked behind them herself. "Is anyone following us?"

"Just Antonio."

"Tell me what turned up."

"Another body, in Mississippi. The other man and your father knew each other, and they were probably killed at the same time. The other man was in a car in the hot sun, so the coroner can't pin his time of death down as accurately as we could with your father, but it's close enough."

"What was the other man's name?"

"Rick Medina. Your father knew him in Vietnam. Did you ever hear of him?" She shook her head.

"He worked for the CIA."

Startled, she said, "Dad wasn't CIA."

"I know, but they knew each other anyway. At first, when I found out about Medina, I thought maybe he had been the primary target and your father got in the way. But now…" Now, with the attacks on her, it seemed likely the situation was reversed. She rubbed her forehead. "Why come after me? I don't know anything about what he did."

"Someone evidently thinks otherwise."

"Do you think this has anything to do with the CIA?"

He shook his head. "They seem to be as much in the dark as we are. Medina did occasional work for them, but he wasn't in their employ at the time. No one knows why he was here."

"Another dead end."

"Or a lead. Whoever dumped Medina's body did it across the state line, probably thinking we wouldn't link the two murders. Medina's murder looked like a robbery, except they left the car, which was worth a lot of money if that was what they were after. It was as if they wanted him to be identified without any trouble."

"Why would they want him identified?"

"Because they wanted someone to know he was dead. Who and why?"

"We keep saying they ."

"I don't think one person could have managed both murders so cleanly, with no witnesses." So what were they dealing with? she wondered. An army of assassins? People she wouldn't recognize, who could walk up to her door at any time, perhaps wearing a police officer's uniform, and kill her when she opened the door? Would she ever feel free to cross a street again without wondering if one of the cars waiting at the traffic light was going to make an early start and run her down?

Now she was being paranoid, but where did it end?

She stirred, realizing they had been silent for some time and were almost in New Orleans. "If you don't mind, take me to a nice, quiet motel that's within walking distance of a supermarket. I'm paying for everything with cash, so if I check in under an assumed name, I should be safe enough." His jaw tightened. "I'm taking you to my house," he said evenly.

His house. Her stomach clenched in a rush of mingled desire and terror. "I can't stay with you. If they find me, you'll be in danger, too."

"And if they find you, you'll be a hell of a lot safer with me than you would alone in some motel room." It was blind instinct that had sent her back to New Orleans, a panicked need to be near Marc, but now that she was here, she knew she couldn't live with herself if anything happened to him because of her. "I can't take that chance. Once they trace me to New Orleans, wouldn't your house be the first place they would look?"

"Why would they? Contrary to what you seem to think, no one except the two of us knows we spent the last night you were here screwing all night long like a couple of minks." He said it so smoothly, the rich, dark tones of his voice shaping the words almost into a caress. If he meant to shock her, he succeeded. If he meant to forcibly remind her of the intimacy they had shared, he succeeded in that, too. She felt her face get hot as a blush spread from her breasts upward. She tried to ignore both her blush and his comment, doggedly sticking to her guns. "You're the one who investigated Dad's murder. Of course, they would watch you—"

"I would almost welcome them," he said, very gently. "I'm armed, and I'm pissed." Yes, he was—royally pissed. Again. Or still. She stared blindly out the window. He exited off I-10 and worked his way over to Canal Street, then down Chartres, then left on St. Louis. He hit the garage door opening, and Karen managed not to duck as he drove under the yawning door with inches to spare.