The Business of Strangers
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Kylie Brant
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Chapter 1
Six Years Later
Sheriff Kingsley motioned for attention from the deputies and raised a hand to begin the signal. On the count of three, the deputy in front used the entry device to blast the door twice, then stood aside as the sheriff raised a booted foot to send it crashing against the opposite wall. The four people inside were already scrambling.
“Freeze!”
Kingsley went into the farmhouse, followed by Deputies Cook and Ralston. The scene inside was chaotic, the shouted orders mingling with the cries of the suspects. One went for his weapon and the sheriff brought up a rifle, sighted and shot with one fluid movement. The man slumped against the wall, hand clamped to his wounded shoulder. Another was attempting to flee through an open window, and Kingsley let him go. Deputies were stationed all around the house. He wouldn’t get far.
“Hands in the air. In the air! Don’t make a move toward that weapon!” Three other officers raced by to secure the rest of the house. Kingsley kept the rifle trained on the drug dealers they’d surprised, as Deputies Simpson, Cook and Ralston cuffed them. Only then was the weapon lowered and handed to another deputy.
“Need some help there, Ralston?” Kingsley asked.
The hulking man the deputy was attempting to pat down was huge, over six and a half feet tall, and even in restraints he wasn’t proving cooperative. It had taken two officers to put cuffs on him, and he was still actively resisting. Kingsley started forward to assist.
“I got him.” Ralston’s sullen, barely civil tone was familiar, as it was the one he’d used to address the newly appointed sheriff for the last six weeks.
Because it appeared that the deputy had subdued the man, Kingsley drew on some latex gloves and approached the coffee table. Amid piles of bills was a clear bag containing what looked like shards of glass. Picking it up, the sheriff gave a low whistle. “This just might turn out to be a major bust.”
Simpson craned his neck to look. “What is it? Coke?”
“Looks like crystal meth to me.” Kingsley dropped it into the evidence bag another deputy produced, while the wounded suspect snarled, “It ain’t ours. You planted it. We’ll all testify to that.” He looked around at his companions, as if for support.
“Better hope none of your prints is on it then, genius.” To the deputies, Kingsley said, “Get them in the cars. Simpson, once the medic has your prisoner stabilized, take him to the ER.”
One by one the officers led each cuffed man outside. But when Ralston passed by the sheriff with his prisoner, the deputy seemed to stumble a little, loosening his hold. The suspect used the opportunity to pull away, lowering his head and then swinging it hard, connecting with Kingsley’s face.
Two deputies leaped to assist, but it wasn’t necessary. Kingsley grabbed the man’s shirt, using his forward motion to flip him to the floor, and placed a foot on the back of his neck to keep him there. It usually wasn’t all that difficult to ignore Ralston’s attitude, but the smirk on the deputy’s face, coupled with the pain from the blow the suspect had landed, had the sheriff calling, “Meyer. Backstrom. Take over for Ralston here.”
The order brought a familiar glower to the deputy’s face. “That’s not necessary, Sheriff. I’ve got him under control.”
“No, Deputy, I’ve got him under control. Back away.” Reluctantly, Ralston stepped aside to allow the other two officers to accompany the suspect to the car. Only after all the cuffed men had been taken outside did Kingsley turn to the deputy.
A hand on his arm stopped Ralston as he started to shove by. “No harm done this time, but making mistakes like that with suspects can get other officers injured or killed. Don’t let it happen again.”
The deputy wheeled around, his thin face flushed and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you big city hotshots call a mistake? Reading your press, I figured a cocky dyke like you could take this whole crew single-handedly.”
Kingsley nodded. “If I had taken them on, one of the first things I would have done with a large struggling opponent would be to incapacitate him completely. Sort of like this.” A stiff-fingered jab to a neural pressure point at the base of Ralston’s throat had the man sinking to his knees, both hands clasped to his neck, his breathing strangled.
Sheriff Rianna Kingsley stepped around him. “I wonder which will bother you the most now, Ralston. That you’re working for a dyke sheriff or that she just kicked your ass?”
It was hours before the arrest and booking procedures were completed. There were reports to be filed, evidence to be labeled and bagged and phone calls to dodge. All of those calls had come from Eldon Croat, local county commissioner and primary reason Ria had been appointed to fill out the prior sheriff’s term. She was in no mood to listen to the commissioner’s jubilant crowing at this latest bust, or about his own brilliance—even when that “brilliance” had to do with his hiring of her.
Her cheek throbbed where the suspect had nailed her, and the ongoing hostility from Ralston hadn’t improved her mood. The man had been a major pain since she’d taken the job six weeks ago, and ignoring him hadn’t helped. She doubted she’d improved matters any by embarrassing him in front of some of the others, but it had been completely satisfying for her, so that was something.
She glanced at the clock. It was after six. Saving the report she was typing at the computer, she stood and hung up the navy SHERIFF windbreaker she’d discarded earlier, along with the body armor. Grabbing her purse, she headed out. What she needed right now was a thick steak, two fingers of Scotch and the privacy to enjoy both. That meant traveling beyond the confines of Tripolo, Alabama. And probably even outside Fenton County.
Marlyss, the big blond secretary/dispatcher, looked up from her paperwork as Rianna walked by. “Leaving for the night, Sheriff?”
“Going out for a bite. Where’s the best steak to be found around here?” She’d already learned that Marlyss considered herself a culinary connoisseur. From her talk on Mondays it appeared she and her husband’s primary socializing on the weekends centered around discovering new restaurants. Her girth was testament to the success of her search.
“Shakers is about ten minutes from here, and they do a decent fillet. Things can get pretty rowdy there on the weekends, though.”
Ria recalled the name. She’d sent a couple deputies on a call there last weekend. “What about outside the county?”
Marlyss reached forward and opened a side drawer on her desk. “If you want to drive on over to Phenix City or even Columbus, Georgia, I’ve got a few menus from places we’ve enjoyed. You’re welcome to take them with you and decide. Bring them back when you’re done though, won’t you?”
Recognizing the gesture for what it was, Ria took the menus. She wasn’t about to turn aside one of the few offers of genuine friendliness she’d encountered since coming here. “I’ll do that, Marlyss. Thanks.”
Once she’d showered, changed and got in her car, Ria was in the mood to drive. Glancing through the menus the dispatcher had given her, she decided to bypass Phenix City and cross the Chattahoochee River to Columbus. After six weeks on the job, she knew few people in Fenton County and the vicinity, but many would recognize her, thanks to the local news stories announcing her appointment. Columbus represented relative anonymity, and tonight that was what she craved.
She slowed at the first address Marlyss had suggested, but the place looked too crowded and pretentious for her taste. The second, with the dubious name Hoochees, was more her style, and located on what had to be prime riverfront property. Once inside, she congratulated herself on her selection. The noise level was muted, the tables were set far enough away from each other to give a semblance of privacy, and the bar looked well stocked.
The service was quick and discreet. Within just a few minutes she’d been seated near a large bank of windows overlooking the river, and had placed her order. Nursing her first Scotch, she let her gaze drift across the room, taking unconscious mental note of its occupants, before she found her attention snared by a man behind the bar speaking to the bartender.
A jolt of pure sexual lust sizzled through her. Surprised, she assessed him more carefully. It had been a long time, perhaps too long, since she’d responded to a man on any level. This one was dressed in black trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show powerful forearms. He was just a couple of inches taller than her own height of five-nine, with longish, well-cut black hair swept back from a face that was all chiseled hollows and carved angles. It was an interesting face, rather than a handsome one, made more so by the old scar that ran from the corner of one eye halfway across his cheek.
Although it was his bone structure that drew attention, it was his eyes that kept it. A pale ice blue, the look in them was as formidable as his expression.
Some would find it difficult to meet that demanding stare. It turned on her now, just for a moment, and she recognized the male speculation there.
Deliberately, she returned her gaze to her drink. She didn’t do long-term relationships, not ever. And when sexual energy demanded that she hook up with a man for a brief explosive sexual encounter, she chose men who were safe and shallow. This one didn’t appear to meet either criterion.
Picking up her glass, she swirled the amber liquid pensively. Today could be considered her birthday, in a way. It had been six years since she’d washed up on the shores of Santa Cristo. Six years since her appearance there had signed another woman’s death warrant.
Ria drank, the Scotch scorching a path down her throat. If she hadn’t already been determined to discover her identity, Luz’s death would have convinced her to do so. She may have deserved her fate. It was a hard possibility to contemplate, if a realistic one. But Luz had died because she’d gone out of her way to help a stranger, and the act had robbed her child of a mother, Luz’s parents of their child.
And someone was going to pay for that.
After making sure Maria was safe at her grandparents still-empty house, Ria had taken up residence at one of the hotels nearby, casing its clients until she found one who resembled her enough for her to steal the woman’s ID and return ticket, and pass them off as her own. The plane had taken her to San Diego, but innate caution had had her purchasing a bus ticket to L.A. There had been every reason to fear she would be followed. She’d made sure the trail wouldn’t be an easy one. Once in L.A. she’d found a modest room in a questionable neighborhood and spent her days haunting the computer labs on the UCLA campus.
The waitress delivered some steaming plates of food to the next table, and Ria’s stomach responded with a growl of interest. She caught the woman’s eye on her way by and raised her empty glass slightly. Smiling, the waitress nodded and continued back to the bar.
The Internet was a well of information for people who knew what they were looking for. Ria never had been able to recall any personal information about herself, but she’d known there were sites on the Net where people could obtain realistic looking documents for making false pieces of identification, and books that detailed how to create a past for herself. She’d had both delivered to a mail drop site she’d opened, and then started the real search.
For who had wanted her dead, and why.
Her nape prickled now and she turned to see the man she’d noticed behind the bar approaching her with a bottle of Chivas Regal. Silently, she watched as he stopped at her table and tipped the bottle to her glass, filling it, his gaze never leaving her.
That skitter was back, an electric current that shimmied down her spine and up again. The man’s magnetism was even more apparent up close, those ice-blue eyes even more compelling.
“Was the waitress busy?” she asked blandly, after he’d finished pouring.
His well-formed brows lifted. “No, she would have brought you a refill. I decided to bring you a drink and an invitation to share dinner.”
His voice was low, smoky, but she discerned a layer of steel beneath the surface charm. She reached out and raised the glass to her lips, still watching him. When she set it back on the table, she inquired, “And if I just want the drink?”
“Then I’d accept your offer to join you for a Scotch and be grateful for that.” Smoothly, he reached over and drew out the chair facing hers, sitting down as he motioned to the waitress to bring another glass.
Ria’s lips quirked at the obvious manipulation, but she let it pass. There were worse ways to spend a few minutes than conversing with a fascinating man. And perhaps, upon proximity, she’d discovered he wasn’t nearly as intriguing as he appeared.
Even as her mind jeered at the idea, she asked, “Are you the manager here, or something?”
“The owner. Are you a tourist?”
“No, I moved nearby recently.” She kept her answer purposefully vague, as much from habit as innate caution. She’d spent the last six years living below the radar. Her current identity had been carefully chosen. It would, and had, withstood law enforcement scrutiny and background checks. But no adopted identity was flawless. She had become adept at giving away as little personal information as possible.
Those pale blue eyes surveyed her as the waitress delivered a glass and poured a serving from the bottle. Their color was made even more startling by the dark lashes surrounding them. His was a rugged face, lined from at least thirty-five years, all of them hard. Most people would believe the scar responsible for the air of danger he carried, but Ria knew better. The danger went deeper. This was a man who had handled trouble and delivered more than his share of it.
“You’re not from around here.” He swirled the liquor in his glass and aimed a smile at her. His mouth was his best feature, its full, sensuous bottom lip providing an intriguing contrast to the chiseled lines of his face.
Her pulse stuttered, shocking her. It had been a long time since she’d responded to a man this strongly. It had been since…well, never. At least not that she could remember.
“You’ve got no accent, even though folks ’round here like to claim that it’s everyone else who talks differently.”
Dodging the question couched in his statement, she brought her glass up, sipped. “You don’t have an accent.”
One side of that well-formed mouth kicked up. “That’s because I’m from New York originally. But I’ve been in Georgia for about eleven years. Another fifty and they might consider me a native Southerner.”
Ria smiled. She’d already encountered that distant civility that clearly stated she was considered an outsider, and probably always would be. That was fine with her. She didn’t intend to stay in Alabama forever. Just long enough to finish the quest that had driven her for six long years. “You don’t look like a restaurateur.”
“No?” He leaned back in his chair, took a drink, pausing as if to enjoy the flavor of the aged Scotch. “Well, maybe that’s because I have multiple holdings. This place is just one of my businesses. And as of about ten minutes ago, it’s my favorite.”
The words might have sounded flirtatious coming from another man. But there was nothing lighthearted about him, or about the heat in his eyes. He was taking no pains to hide the fact that his interest in her was immediate, and frankly sexual. More heady than the Scotch, recognition of that fact fired her blood. One of the things she’d come to know about herself was that she wasn’t a woman who appreciated games.
She toyed with the idea of taking him up on the carnal invitation in his gaze. Sexual confidence shimmered off him like heat waves from a scorching tarmac. A quick bout of mind-shattering sex would be far more effective than Scotch and a steak to relieve a little of the stress from the last few days.
But in the next moment she rejected the thought, with no little regret. Although he didn’t look like the type to be averse to a no-strings, one-night stand, something about him kept her wary. The man had complication written all over him. And her life was already fraught with far too many complications.
There was a slight sound, and he withdrew a small beeper from his trouser pocket, looked at it and frowned. Glancing at her as he slipped it away again, he said, “I have business to attend to. Are you planning on staying long?”
She was already shaking her head. “Just long enough to devour that steak I ordered.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He made no attempt to disguise the dual meaning in his words. This wouldn’t be a man used to having women turn away from his interest in them. But neither would he be one to brood overmuch when one did. He wouldn’t lack female companionship—either from those women too dim to be cautious about the slight menace he emanated, or those, like her, who were attracted despite it.
“I don’t think so.”
He rose. “Your meal will be on the house tonight.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No. But maybe it will convince you to come back sometime, give us another try.”
“Maybe.” The word slipped out before she could prevent it, and a look of satisfaction flickered across his face.
He nodded once more. “Until then.”
She didn’t turn to watch him leave, although a part of her wanted to. Though she doubted their paths would cross again, fantasizing about a possible next time was harmless enough. There was very little room in her life for foolish wistfulness.
Most of her fantasies involved deadly daydreams of revenge.
Although the owner—they’d never gotten around to exchanging names—had left the bottle on her table, she wouldn’t be drinking any more once her glass was empty. She knew her limits, all of them, and stayed scrupulously within them. It had been a reeducation of sorts, every bit of knowledge that she’d learned about herself a prize that could be pieced together with others to get a sense of the whole.
Some had appeared at odd times, disconcerting bits that had formed an undeniably disturbing picture of whom she’d been. She’d had very little trouble devising a plan for getting out of Santa Cristo. She thought it might prove more difficult post 9/11, with all the heightened security. But at the time, she’d never missed a beat, whether it was fighting a masked assailant to the death, breaking into a safe in a resort room or assuming a new identity.
Though her personal recollections had never reappeared, there were plenty of things that she did remember, and those memories were troublesome. How many amnesia victims could claim to recall exactly how to beat a polygraph? She’d been confident in her ability to do so, and had succeeded in the course of her recruitment to the police academy.
It was second nature for her to enter a new place and make immediate note of the exits, while sizing up the occupants with a speed that spoke of training or practice. From just a few glances she knew the bartender here would be as adept with a weapon as he was at mixing drinks; that the couple in the far corner were probably engaged in an extramarital affair; the guy to her right would fold in the face of trouble, but the one sitting at the bar could handle himself in a fight; and that the man on her left was screwing up the courage to approach her.
She no longer questioned where these skills stemmed from. They were merely tools, to be used in her search for answers of a far more serious nature. Although there was very little she could be positive of, she was fairly sure that whatever her identity before that fateful night in Santa Cristo, she’d almost certainly been operating outside the law.
It had been a hard realization to swallow, and she’d done her share of dodging the truth. It would have been easier, far easier, had she been able to manufacture another explanation. There was any number of possible scenarios for her ending up shot and left for dead off the shore of the island. But coupled with her familiarity with weapons, Dim-Mak combat and assassination techniques, there were only a few explanations that made sense.
She’d either been a criminal, a mercenary or some sort of operative, military or government sanctioned. While she’d hoped for the latter, she’d long ago resigned herself to discovering the worst.
Because the pang that accompanied that thought was unwelcome, she pushed it aside. Happy, happy birthday to her. Her lips twisted into an expression that should have dissuaded the interest of the man at the next table, before she swallowed some more Scotch, welcoming the fiery path it traced down to her stomach.
Her steak arrived at approximately the same time as the guy beside her, and was much more welcome.
“Looks like you’re dining alone.” His smile was toothpaste ad bright as he rested his folded arms on top of the chair next to her. “Me, too. Not much fun, is it?”
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked.
Ignoring the stranger for the moment, Ria smiled at the woman, shook her head. “No, thank you. This looks great.” The waitress sent a quick glance at the man and moved away.
“It should, for these prices. But they do a decent fillet here. Not as good as Falstead’s. Have you been there?”
“No. I’m looking forward to enjoying this one, though.” As a dismissal, it was more polite than she was feeling. Spreading the napkin on her lap, she picked up her silverware.
“Be more enjoyable with company, wouldn’t it?” The man aimed another smile her way, pulled out the chair next to her. Sinking into it, he continued, “I’m Tyler Stodgill, by the way. I placed my order right after yours. My food should be coming any minute. No reason for us to eat alone.”
Looking at him, she said succinctly, “But I want to eat alone.”
“Bad for the digestion. Believe me, I know. I’m on the road three or four days a week. I’m a pharmaceutical salesman.” He flashed his teeth again. “I hit forty-fifty medical offices a month.”
Deliberately, she set her knife and fork down, before she was tempted to use them on him. He wasn’t bad looking. He was a little stocky, with short-cropped sandy hair, brown eyes and a rounded jaw. His navy blazer jacket and wheat-colored pants were sharply creased, his white shirt spotless. He could have been a lonely traveling salesperson, looking for a little companionship. She might have believed it if it wasn’t for his eyes. This was no dense oaf without the social skills to sense her lack of welcome. This was a man filled with an overinflated sense of self-importance and—a woman’s worst night-mare—a gross overestimation of his own appeal.
She sighed and reached for some rapidly dwindling patience. “Look, I’ve had a hard week. I just want a drink, a steak and silence. I wouldn’t be good company.”
His expression went ugly. “Looked like your company was fine when Jake was here.”
She blinked. “Who?”
“You know. The owner. The guy you were drinking with.”
Jake. The name suited the man somehow, tough and no-nonsense. “I told him basically the same thing I’m telling you.” She aimed a pointed look at him. “He took it with more grace.”
His face had smoothed. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’m just the guy to make you forget about all your troubles.” With a sense of disbelief, she felt his hand on her thigh below the table, caressing her leg suggestively through her white slacks. “I’m staying at a hotel not too far from here. After dinner, maybe we could—” Whatever he had been about to say ended in a yelp as she bent his two middle fingers far enough to nearly touch the back of his hand.
She kept her expression pleasant, but her tone was lethal. “You need to learn to pay attention. I’m not interested. Do you understand now?”
With his teeth clenched, he grasped, “You’re breaking my damn fingers.”
“Not yet. But I could.” She exerted just enough pressure on the joints to back up her words, and a whimper escaped him. A man at a table nearby gave them a cursory glance. Ria wasn’t concerned. The long table linen would hide her actions.
Stodgill’s face was rapidly losing color. She noted the approach of the waitress. “Your food is coming. I want you to take it and ask for a different table. One where I can’t see you. If you don’t, I am really, really going to hurt you.”
“All right! Let go!”
She did, only because the waitress had halted at his table, clearly uncertain about where to set his food. He immediately shoved back his chair, a vicious expression on his face, muttering an obscenity. Ria picked up her silverware again. “I think a table on the other side of the bar might suit your needs best.”
He rose, the chair clattering behind him. “I want a different table,” he told the server in a loud voice. “I don’t like the view from here.”
The young woman said, “But you asked for a view of the river, sir. This is the best—”
“Dammit, I said I want a new table! Something over there.” He lurched off, leaving the waitress to follow with his tray of food.
While a few diners watched the small scene, Ria reached for her Scotch, drained the glass. The bottle was still there, a silent temptation, one she wouldn’t allow herself to succumb to. She couldn’t afford weaknesses in her life. Weaknesses led to mistakes. And even one slip could lead yet another assassin to her doorstep, like the one who’d found her in Santa Cristo.
And the second who’d caught up with her in L.A.
She cut another piece of steak and brought it to her mouth, savoring the taste. A woman who had faced death as often as she had had learned to enjoy life’s small pleasures. Even now she couldn’t pinpoint how the second killer had managed to track her from San Diego to L.A., although she suspected the money she’d taken off the first one had somehow been traced. She hadn’t been in Los Angeles two weeks before a man had been waiting for her one night in the room she’d rented.
He’d been as able as the first killer, his intent just as deadly. But instead of a knife, his weapon of choice had been a garrote—a thin wire used for strangling victims quickly and silently. The savage fight had lasted no more than a few minutes, but in the end it had been the stranger who had ended up dead on the floor, without ever having spoken a word.
He’d been dressed exactly as the first would-be killer, down to the pouch at his waist. Again, it had held only a vial, a syringe and a wad of ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
And the tattoo identical to her own, and that of the first killer, had been found on his right shoulder.
This time she’d taken a few precautions before fleeing. She’d gone to a department store and bought a disposable camera, using one of the bills she’d taken off the man. Then, using city transit, she went from one discount store to the next, buying items she’d need, each time carefully exchanging the man’s money. When she’d gotten back to her room, she’d taken several pictures of the killer and the tattoo before packing quickly and leaving L.A. behind.
Ria stopped devouring the steak long enough to taste the baked potato, drenched in melted butter. She could practically feel her arteries clogging, but she’d work off the calories the next day at the gym. Tripolo had a new YMCA with a very decent weight room. One of the first things she’d done upon moving there was to join it. Staying in shape was as vital for her new occupation as it had been for whatever her former one had been.
She’d purposefully crisscrossed the western United States in a random manner meant to confuse. When she’d gotten low on money, she’d stolen more, and found herself distastefully adept at it. She’d landed on the campus of the University of Iowa, where it had been surprisingly easy to join a group of prospective new students there for orientation, and obtain a photo ID. And then she’d melted in with the other twenty-nine thousand students and gone back to work. Before she could set about discovering her real identity, she’d first had to manufacture a new one.
“Would you like any dessert this evening?” The waitress was back with a practiced smile.
“No, but I will take some coffee.” Ria waited for her to return with it and fill her cup, then had her leave the carafe on the table.
Ria drank pensively, lost in memories that began six years ago. At the U of I she’d haunted the computer labs, careful to use different ones each time, searching for anything that would connect to her.
The discovery of the body she’d left in her L.A. apartment had warranted a three-inch article buried deep in the L.A. Times. She’d hoped that a revelation of the assassin’s identity would provide clues to her own. She’d even called the news desk at the Times on a couple of occasions, talked to the crime reporter who had covered the story. By feeding him some careful details, she was able to whet his interest enough to have him digging further. But the dead man had remained a John Doe, and the case had eventually been shelved as unsolved. The only thing of value she’d learned was that neither of their fingerprints had been on file in the national Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Whoever the would-be killer had been, his death had caused as little stir as had her own disappearance.
Because new identities didn’t come cheap, she’d used almost every dime she had left on establishing hers. And she’d been aided, at first unknowingly, by the one person who’d been allowed to get halfway close to her, Benny Zappa.
Something inside her softened at the thought of Benny, with his gangly scarecrow walk and too large Adam’s apple. His narrow black-rimmed glasses had been meant to be stylish, but they couldn’t disguise what he was—a computer geek through and through, and proud of his abilities, if not of the persona that he could never quite shed. In his awkward, bumbling way he’d offered to help her—in an attempt to hit on her, she’d thought. And at first she’d seen his shy overtures through purely shrewd eyes, as a means to an end. It wasn’t until later that she discovered in the process she’d made an invaluable friend.
His genius with computers was coupled with a hacker’s love of a challenge. No database—university, state or federal—seemed impenetrable with him at the keyboard. With the information he was able to access for her, she’d chosen a new identity and followed every lead she could think of. And what she appreciated most about him, in all this time, was his willingness to use his skills without asking questions she had no intentions of answering.
Although he must have put some details together about what drove her, he didn’t press her about it, and she appreciated his discretion as much as his friendship.
Refilling her cup, she sipped, watching the river churn sluggishly by, as evening turned to dusk. If she headed back now she could get a couple hours of work in. Not at the sheriff’s office, but in the office she’d set up in a spare bedroom in the house she’d bought in Tripolo.
Each lead she’d followed about her identity, every fact she’d discovered, was carefully encrypted and kept on her home computer. After six years she had a substantial file with a copy downloaded to CD monthly and sent to a mail drop across the country for safekeeping. So far she had plenty of dead ends, plenty of threads that apparently went nowhere. But she wasn’t giving up. She’d never give up.
There were some who would consider her existence lonely. But she thought she must be used to being alone, because it had never bothered her overmuch in the last half-dozen years. What had seemed strange was the openhearted generosity of Luz, the puppy-dog friendliness of Benny. The fact that Ria had first regarded both of them with suspicion was surely an indictment of who, or what, she’d been.
Catching the waitress’s attention, she summoned her over, ready to leave. Whatever else she’d learned about herself, she wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice. Benny lived halfway across the country and she was excruciatingly careful on the rare occasions she allowed herself to contact him on an untraceable cell phone. She didn’t think she’d be able to bear it if another person died because of her.
“Oh, there’s no bill, ma’am,” the waitress said. “Jake said it’s on the house.”
Jake. She’d like to pretend she’d already forgotten him, but she wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself. He’d hovered in the back of her mind since he’d left, a haunting reminder of a fascinating man she would never see again. Ria opened her purse, took out some bills. “I told him that wasn’t necessary. I’d like to pay for my own meal. Could you please tell me how much it was?”
But the woman was backing away, a faintly alarmed expression on her face. “Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t do that. Jake said specifically, and ’round here, we do what he says.”
With a mental shrug, Ria gave up. She folded the bills and handed them to the server. “Then this is for you.”
The woman gave her a shocked look, but whisked them into a pocket in her apron quickly enough. “Thank you, ma’am. Hope you come back real soon.”
But thoughts of returning were far from Ria’s mind as she made her way to the large parking lot outside, keys in her hand. It was full now, much more crowded than it had been when she’d arrived. Walking purposefully toward her car, she heard her cell phone ring and took it from her purse, checking the caller ID. Eldon Croat. With a grimace, she decided against answering it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to meet with the county commissioner and try to talk him out of the press conference he’d want to call about the latest drug busts. Even after all these years, and the attempts she’d taken to change her appearance, she was leery about getting—
He seemed to come out of nowhere, looming from between two cars and taking quick steps toward her. Her hands were full, slowing her response, and before she could react he was behind her, grabbing her nape and smashing her face into the roof of her car.
It was telling in that instant, with stars bursting behind her eyes, that her first thought was of the assassins. And that they’d finally caught up with her.
