Читать книгу Bodyguard Reunion - Beverly Long - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Sweat was running down the back of JC’s neck by the time the cab came to a complete stop. She’d wanted to ask the driver to turn down his heater, but for the last fifteen minutes she’d listened to the man, who was probably fifty in a world where fifty didn’t look like thirty, quietly beg the person on the other end of the phone to please let his mother keep her dog. He’d promised repeatedly to replace the carpet that said dog must have ripped up.

Her own mom had loved her little Yorkie. And after she’d died, the dog had never been the same, even though JC had watched her father try to woo the dog over. Instead, the animal had seemed to mope around her parents’ home for months until one night the little guy had fallen asleep and never woken up.

She’d figured he’d died of a broken heart. She’d understood the feeling. The loss of Lara Cambridge had been sudden and very horrible.

“Twenty-six fifty,” he said.

She gave him a hundred and got out of the cab.

He rolled down his window. “I don’t have change, lady.”

“I don’t want any,” she said.

It was enough that for a brief second, the man’s tense posture, the stiff way he held his head, it all seemed to relax. He rolled his window up. Stopped halfway.

“Best be careful in this neighborhood,” he said. Then he pulled away, leaving her alone. Cars, mostly old, were parked on both sides of the street. There was little grass and only a few trees to soften the rough appearance of the small wood-framed houses that lined the road. A big dog running behind a chain-link fence barked, startling her. She saw a swing set in one yard with a rusty slide that couldn’t possibly be safe for a child.

Across the street, several houses up, she saw an old woman wearing a housedress, her back to the street, sweeping her sidewalk. She glanced again at the scrap of paper where she’d written down the address and Charity’s brief directions. Apartments on the corner. Had to be the three five-story brick buildings that were bunched together as if there might be safety in numbers.

She’d been so distracted after talking to Charity that she’d run out of the hotel without her phone. Hadn’t realized it until she was already blocks from there. If she had it, a quick call to Charity would have made it easier. Instead, it took her several minutes to identify that apartment 302 was in the middle building. She walked across the yard that was more weeds than grass, grateful that she’d pulled on her flat-heeled boots before leaving the hotel. She was almost at the door when she saw a police car cruise by.

It was the kind of neighborhood that likely required regular patrol. There were two officers but neither seemed to glance her direction. Eyes were focused straight ahead.

She reached for the handle of the glass door that looked as if someone had thrown a slice of pizza at it, hadn’t been happy with their aim and tried it again. That or it was dried vomit.

She was sticking with pizza.

Inside, there was a very small lobby, maybe five feet by five feet. Mailboxes, thirty of them, lined one wall. Directly across was the elevator that looked a hundred years old, which she thought was likely not possible, since the building had probably been built in the seventies or eighties. But the painted doors were scratched and dented and when they opened, the smell of urine was oppressive. She got in and pressed the three with her elbow.

The idea that Charity was living in the place made her sick. And the knowledge that if circumstances had been different it might have been her instead made her arms feel heavy as the elevator slowly climbed to the third floor.

When the doors opened, the heat hit her. How could it feel as if it was eighty-five in the hallway when it was fifty degrees outside? She quickly glanced both directions. All five doors were closed.

She found apartment 302 at the end of the hall. Stood outside the door, her fist raised to knock.

She had some idea what to expect. Charity had no social media accounts, at least that she’d been able to find. But the private investigator she’d hired had unearthed a senior class picture of the girl taken six years ago.

She’d stared at that photo for weeks that had turned into months, working up her nerve. The idea that she was opening a door that might never be fully shut again was a bit terrifying. She could be inviting trouble into her life, into her father’s life. Maybe unnecessarily.

She’d almost managed to convince herself that it was too great a risk, that it didn’t matter. But in the end, she’d realized that she had to know. She had to know if what her mom had believed to be true was indeed fact.

Had to know the extent of her father’s betrayal.

She pressed a hand flat against her stomach, which was rumbling with nerves. What was Charity going to think of her? If she’d done any searching, she’d have seen plenty of JC. Miatroth’s recent clinical trials in the war against pancreatic cancer had gone amazingly well, and in the last month, JC had been interviewed many times.

She’d have preferred to orchestrate a meeting, to set it up just so to give her and Charity the optimal opportunity to get to know each other. But Charity’s admission that she was in trouble had changed all that.

Her plan was to meet Charity, find a solution to whatever trouble she was in and get back to the hotel before Royce returned so that he never had to know she’d left in the first place.

Otherwise, he was going to have one more reason to believe that she couldn’t be trusted.

JC knocked sharply on the door.

It swung open. And there she was.

Charity had big dark eyes that seemed to fill her narrow face. Her straight hair was almost black, much darker than it had been in her senior class picture, and hung down past her shoulders. There was a silver ring at the edge of her right eyebrow and her nose was pierced. Those were also new in the last six years. She was wearing a shapeless olive green cotton dress with a drawstring waist and flip-flops.

Too thin, almost waiflike, and JC’s first impulse was to feed her. “Hello,” said JC. Should she hug her? Nothing about Charity’s body language told her that would be the right move. She settled for extending her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m JC...uh...Juliana, but I go by JC.”

Charity didn’t move. Instead, she glanced at JC’s extended arm, then settled her gaze back on JC’s face. The silence stretched on.

And JC silently lectured herself not to fill it. She sometimes did that when she was nervous.

“I guess I wasn’t sure you would come,” Charity finally said.

JC tried not to take it personally. Trust had to be earned. Basic tenet of doing business. “I was concerned,” JC said. “May...I come in?” she asked.

Charity shook her head. “We’ve got to get out of here before Bobby comes back.”

“Who’s Bobby?” JC asked, already knowing the answer. The investigator that she’d hired had unearthed the name of the man she was living with. But she couldn’t let Charity know that. She looked over the girl’s shoulder. She was at least three inches shorter than JC’s own five foot six.

Charity tossed her hair. “Just this guy. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

She turned and that’s when JC saw the open suitcase on the couch. Wadded-up clothes were hanging over the edges of the inexpensive luggage. Two pairs of gladiator sandals, one black, one brown, seemed to be taking up most of the room.

“You said you were in trouble,” JC said. “The kind of trouble where you need to leave?”

“The kind of trouble where I think it’s possible that I’m going to be that poor girl on the ten o’clock news,” Charity said, her voice low. “Bobby’s got some anger issues and I don’t feel safe. It was probably a mistake for me to move in here.”

In the information that had been gathered about Charity, there’d been no mention of violence involving her and Bobby. “How long have the two of you been together?”

Charity ran a hand through her long hair. “Not that long. A few months.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

Charity shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a couple hundred bucks. Should get me a place to stay for a week or so until I figure things out.”

Not a nice place. But they could have that discussion once she was safely out of the apartment. “Maybe you better finish packing,” JC said. She looked around. The apartment was very sparsely furnished with just a couch and two folding chairs. A flat-screen television was perched on top of two stacked red plastic crates. A counter separated the kitchen from the living room and it was loaded with dirty dishes, potato chip bags and empty ice-cream-sandwich boxes. There was a big orange cat lying on the far end, its head lifted, perhaps interested in the visitor but not quite enough to be concerned.

Charity wasn’t moving. Just standing there, watching JC.

“Can I...help you with anything?” JC asked.

It took Charity a minute to answer. “I guess I’ll need Hogi’s food,” she said finally, her head moving in the cat’s direction. She walked toward her suitcase.

JC had no idea whether or not the Periwinkle allowed cats. But if not, she suspected that a special damage deposit might take care of the problem. “Do you have a cage for him?”

Charity looked at her as if she might be stupid and used her elbow to point at the top of the fridge.

Well, of course. JC set her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to get into an argument. She wanted to get out of there before Bobby decided to come back.

She found the cat’s food in a bag near a filthy litter box that caused her to breathe through her mouth. She grabbed the small bag of food and backed away. Then she reached for the cat cage on top of the refrigerator.

The cat turned his head, saw what she was doing and, showing more energy than she’d expected, bolted off the counter and down the hallway.

“Oh, my God,” Charity screamed. “Don’t let Hogi see that. He’ll think he’s going to the vet.”

“I’ll get him,” JC said.

Charity held up her hand. “Just wait here. He’ll be under the bed. You’re a stranger. He’ll never come to you.” She picked up a photo album that had been wedged behind the suitcase. “I had these pictures. I thought you might want to see them. Since my mom is in them, you know.”

“Thank you,” she said. She took the album.

Charity ran down the hall, leaving JC alone in the squalid little living room. The cover of the photo album was a brown padded vinyl. JC flipped it open. Inside were ten or twelve plastic sheets, most of the four-by-six slots filled.

Baby pictures. They had to be of Charity. The eyes gave it away. Unable to resist, she flipped a couple pages, looking for the woman who had been Charity’s mother.

There. Holding Charity.

Pretty, with long blond hair. Not as thin as Charity but still slender. She was slumped in a chair, like she might be exhausted.

Had she already realized by that time that she’d be raising Charity alone? Or had she known that from the minute she’d gotten pregnant?

So many questions.

But maybe now she was finally close to getting answers. She could hear Charity calling to the cat. “Come on, Hogi. Come out right now.”

Her sister had a hint of the South in her voice. JC was so intent upon listening to it that it surprised the heck out of her when the apartment door suddenly swung open.

A man, his gut hanging over his belt, wearing a black tank top and gray cargo shorts, stared at her. His hair, long and pulled back into a ponytail, was a dirty blond. He was maybe thirty. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked beyond her. “Charity,” he yelled.

JC stepped forward. “You must be Bobby. I’m JC.” Instinctively, she extended her hand.

He ignored it. He was staring at the suitcase and she could see red spread up his neck. He turned.

JC moved fast and got in front of him, blocking his way to the hallway. “Hey,” she said, “let’s talk—”

He pushed her and she stumbled backward. But years of staying upright on a soccer field had her quickly back in his face. She kicked his shin, right above the ankle joint, right where she knew it would hurt most.

“You little bitch,” he said, punctuating his remarks with a right hook.

JC managed to duck the first punch. “Help,” she screamed. “Somebody help us.”

But help wasn’t coming. And when he grabbed her and shoved her back, knocking her head against the cheap drywall, she knew she was in terrible trouble.

She kicked and twisted but he was strong enough to fight off her attempts with one hand and keep his other hand around her neck, anchoring her to the wall. And his hand was squeezing, closing her airway.

And she knew that she was going to die.

Far away, she heard Charity yelling. “Stop it. Stop it, Bobby. You’re going to kill her.”

She was right.

“Run,” JC managed.

But Charity didn’t. Instead, she pounded on the man’s back, yanking at his hair, scratching his skin.

But still he hung on.

Until suddenly, his hands were gone. And she sank to the floor, gasping in air. There was a terrific buzzing in her ears and it took her seconds to realize that the sound she heard was someone’s fist pounding into flesh.

If she wasn’t mistaken, Royce intended to beat Bobby to death. “Royce,” she said weakly. She staggered to her feet. Another punch. She lurched toward Royce. “Stop,” she said.

But he didn’t until she fell into him. He turned and caught her before her face hit the floor. Which was good because if not, both she and Bobby would have been out cold.

“Jules,” Royce said, his eyes wild. “Damn, honey. Are you—”

“Las Vegas Police Department. Open up.”

Before they could do that, however, two Vegas cops burst through the door, guns drawn.

Royce kept one arm around her and raised his other. “I’m Royce Morgan of Wingman Security. This is my client Juliana Cambridge, and that—” he looked at Bobby, who was just coming to on the floor “—is the piece of crap that attempted to kill her.”

As far as introductions went, it was one of the most concise that she’d ever heard. She looked around for Charity and realized she’d disappeared back into the bedroom.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

She was confident the responding officers were the same ones she’d seen cruising by. She nodded, not sure her voice was steady yet.

“She needs an ambulance,” Royce said.

She shook her head. “Maybe later,” she said softly.

Royce didn’t look satisfied, but he pressed his lips together.

“Who are you?” the shorter officer asked, pointing at Charity, who was now slowly walking down the hall, holding her cell phone. JC assumed that she’d been the one to call the police.

Even being in the neighborhood, they would have arrived too late. If Royce hadn’t come, she’d be dead. How had he found her?

“I’m Charity. Charity White.”

“Do you know this man?” the same officer asked.

Charity nodded. “Bobby. Bobby Boyd. This is his apartment. I’ve been...living here.”

The cop began writing in the small notepad he’d pulled from his breast pocket.

“And what’s the relationship between you and Ms. Cambridge?” the taller Hispanic officer asked.

“We don’t have a relationship,” Charity said. “This is the first time I ever met her. Her mom was friends with my mom.”

That wasn’t exactly what JC had told Charity. My mother knew your mother. That had been her explanation as to why she’d sought out Charity.

But JC kept her mouth shut. It certainly wasn’t the time to blurt out that she and Charity might be half sisters.

From there, things moved pretty quickly. The cops talked quietly to Bobby, who was coming around. An ambulance arrived. Bobby looked small and nonthreatening on the gurney. His eyes were filled with anger but he stayed quiet, as if he’d maybe been in this situation before and understood the importance of keeping his mouth shut.

After he was gone, Royce guided her over to the couch and made sure she was sitting before talking quietly to the cops in the kitchen.

Then it was Charity’s turn. The heavier, younger cop motioned for Charity to join him in the kitchen. JC twisted her neck, watching, but the cop stood in front of Charity, blocking JC’s view.

The Hispanic officer pulled up a folding chair in front of her, forcing her to turn her back to Charity. It dawned on her that it was not by chance they were doing their best to question them separately in the small apartment. No doubt they wanted to see if their stories matched.

Royce stood behind her, his hands flat on the back of the couch. He did not interrupt or ask any questions, which was probably why the cop let him stay. The questions were easy at first. Full name. Address. Phone where she could be reached.

“Walk me through what happened once you arrived here,” the cop said.

“Charity was in the bedroom, trying to get her cat, when Mr. Boyd arrived home. I tried to engage him in conversation. But he appeared angry and I was concerned for Charity’s safety. She’d already confided in me on the telephone and in person that she was afraid of the man. He pushed me, I kicked him in self-defense and then he took a swing at me. I ducked but then he started choking me.” She kept her voice steady, dispassionate, as if she was reporting revenue figures at a board meeting.

The cop looked up from his report. She could almost see the message that passed from the cop to Royce as the two locked eyes. She’s damn lucky you got here.

Nobody needed to point that out to her.

The officer stood up. “I think I’ve got this.”

It was just a few minutes more before Charity and the other officer completed their quiet conversation in the kitchen. Then the two cops left almost as quickly as they’d arrived.

JC stood in the living room. The space was strangely quiet. She looked at Royce. “This will be inadequate, but thank you.”