Читать книгу The Black Sheep And the Princess - Donna Kauffman - Страница 7

Donovan MacLeod ducked as the compressed-air tank shot like a cannonball over his head and slammed into the shelves lining the cinderblock wall behind him. The impact reverberated through the cavernous warehouse.

Mac scooted over next to his partner, pressing his back against the overturned desk as he pulled his gun from his ankle holster. “Could be worse.”

“Oh?”

“He could have a grenade launcher.”

Rafe glared at him. “You said the place was secure, Mr. Motion Detectors Don’t Lie.”

“Shh. They don’t.”

There was a humming noise; then something began plinking into the cinderblock, spraying clumps of gray debris everywhere.

Rafe hunched down farther. “So, those are what, pretend bullets? And all those crates of antiques, including the urn with Mr. Fortenberry’s ashes, must have just gotten up and walked out on their own. Because if the sensors didn’t go off, no one could possibly have gotten in here to steal them, right? All ten of them. Which means Frank couldn’t possibly be in here shooting at us.”

“So cranky.” Mac propped his semiautomatic on his knee as he shifted closer to one end of the heavy oak desk. Thank God for old office furniture. They didn’t make stuff out of real wood anymore. It was all compressed crap these days. Compressed crap wasn’t worth shit for stopping bullets. “He has to get through us to get out of here. I say we make that a bit more difficult for him.”

There was a pause in the shooting. Reloading.

“On three,” Mac said, not needing to glance over his shoulder to know that Rafe had shifted down to the other end.

“One…two—”

“Three” was interrupted by a tremendous explosion that rocked both Mac and Rafe back a good five feet and would have sent them farther still if the metal shelving hadn’t abruptly stopped their trajectory. A thick haze of dust and grit instantly filled the air, forcing them to shield their eyes and yank the fronts of their shirts over their mouths to keep from gagging.

As the dust began to filter through the air and sift to the floor, Mac motioned to Rafe and pointed across the empty space. There was now a very large hole in the opposite wall of the previously secure riverfront warehouse. A hole easily big enough to drive a tank through. Frank DiMateo was a big guy, but he wasn’t Humvee big.

“Damn,” Mac murmured. “I didn’t think he had that in him.”

“Son of a bitchin’ bitch.” Rafe was already on his feet, brushing the cinderblock debris and dust from his tailored black leather jacket, alternately coughing and swearing. “Asshole actually tried to blow me up.”

“Us,” Mac corrected, standing up now, too, albeit a bit more slowly. Cop knees. Unlike his partner, Mac was completely unconcerned about his appearance and did little more than rub his hand over his face to keep the grit from getting in his eyes. “Asshole tried to blow us up. I believe there are two of us here trying not to get ourselves killed.”

“Yeah, but only one of us thought the place was secure.”

“Hey, I checked the place last night and everything was functioning properly. I don’t know how the sensors were tampered with, but I can easily find out. Frank is too damn stupid to override the system, which means he had help.”

“You think Shanahan would risk getting personally involved?”

“An art collector? No. But he sure as hell has the funds to send someone who would. I just can’t figure out how they even knew we were here. We should have been in and out with the urn before they had a clue anything was up.”

“Gee, maybe their sensors worked,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Very funny. But even if they suspected they were being cased and moved the stuff early, why hang around? Seems like a stupid risk to take. Why go to the trouble of messing up their warehouse and inviting an official investigation unless—” Mac broke off and stared at his partner as comprehension dawned on both of them at the same time. “Shit!”

“Run!” they both yelled simultaneously.

Rafe grabbed Mac by the arm, and they lit out across the empty warehouse floor at a dead run, leaving behind Frank’s makeshift office and whatever trail of evidence might still be there as they headed for daylight. It never ceased to amaze Mac what a good punch of adrenaline could do for a bum knee. He ran like a track star, with the far more agile Rafe only a half step ahead of him. They made it maybe ten yards through the gaping hole in the wall before both of them were bodily launched across the remainder of the cracked-cement parking lot when the rest of the warehouse went up in a second explosion.

Fortunately a cargo-sized Dumpster stopped their abrupt exodus before they both went flipping into the Hudson River.

It took a minute or two before his head stopped ringing from the impact. He groaned and rolled over. “We need to be right on his ass,” Mac croaked out, lying half on his side, legs sprawled, one elbow jammed under the Dumpster. “You go get the car.”

“I’m missing a shoe,” was Rafe’s only response. “It was Italian.”

“Well, then, that does it. We certainly can’t be chasing bad guys, hopping around on one designer loafer.”

Rafe ignored the jibe, as he pretty much always did. It was true he took a fair amount of care with his appearance and an unfair amount of grief for it. It was just, when contrasted with Mac’s Fashion-by-Goodwill sensibility, well, it made for good ribbing material.

“You know, when we tracked Frank as the go-between, he was just a paid schmuck too stupid to know the trouble he was involved in. I didn’t like the guy, but as long as we got Doris Fortenberry her urn back, it was live and let live as far as I was concerned.” Rafe swore again and went digging for his shoe. “Now, it’s personal.”

Mac dislodged his arm and righted himself, leaning back against the Dumpster, hoping he’d get most of his hearing back at some point. He flexed his jaw and tried to make his ears pop. “You know, I thought when we started working for Finn, our lives would improve and we’d deal with a better class of people.”

“We do,” Rafe reminded him, still digging. “These days our clients actually deserve our help.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mac gave up trying to pop his ears and resigned himself to feeling as if he was living underwater for the time being. As a police detective he’d spent most of his days tracking down scum who preyed on other scum. And those were just the cases he actually made progress on. Sure, there were the redeeming cases, too: A child saved, a teenager kept off the streets, a mom able to bury her child with some peace of mind, knowing the killer was behind bars, unable to hurt anyone else’s kids. He’d taken redemption where he’d found it.

Now, however, he got to choose his own clients, and all of them deserved justice. With the extended resources of Trinity behind him, he could make sure they always got it, too. One way, or the other. He usually liked it when getting the job done included the “other” part. Today? Not so much.

“Of course, that’s what I thought when I took that job with Hightower, too,” Mac said.

Rafe snorted as he dug through the debris and trash that had collected under the Dumpster. “I told you working high-end security systems for a tight-ass white-collar agency wasn’t for you. We’re not white-collar guys, Mac. Never were, wouldn’t want to be.” Grimacing, he straightened with his missing shoe in hand. It was covered in…something. “We just dress better than our blue-collar compadres.” He brushed off the Dumpster scum with a piece of crumpled newspaper, then glanced down at his partner. “Some of us, anyway.”

“Very amusing.” Mac winced as he rolled to his knees and pushed to stand. “At least when I worked for Hightower and NYPD, no one tried to blow me up. In fact, never once did I get shot across a parking lot like a cannonball.” He made a cursory effort at brushing the soot and grime off his pants, then gave up with a shrug. “Toss a coin. Heads gets to chase down Frank and beat his sorry ass until he tells us where the hell the crates went, and tails gets to call Doris Fortenberry.”

But Rafe wasn’t answering him. He’d smoothed open the newspaper he’d been cleaning his shoe with and was reading something.

Mac turned his head, trying again to pop his ears, then paused. “Shit. I hear sirens. We gotta roll.” He looked at Rafe, who was still engrossed. “Come on, you can find out how the two-headed alien baby survived being raised by wolves later.”

Rafe continued to read, ignoring him. Finally Mac reached out and snatched the paper from him.

“Hey!” Rafe protested, trying to grab it back. “Wait, don’t—”

“They start putting nude photos in the Times now or what?” Mac joked, flipping the paper over.

“Mac, it’s not—” Rafe broke off when the smile on Mac’s face died a swift death. He sighed and shoved his shoe back on.

Mac wasn’t paying him any attention. Actually, he’d forgotten his partner was even there. Or, for that matter, that the two of them were standing on an old shipping pier in the Red Hook District of Brooklyn, having just narrowly escaped death.

He’d taken one look at her picture, and the words “Camp Winnimocca” in the caption beneath, and been instantly transported to another time, another place, where he’d also narrowly escaped death, albeit a far more protracted one. Otherwise known as his childhood.

“Hard to believe Big Lou finally kicked the bucket,” Rafe said, in a lame attempt to lighten the sudden shift in mood.

Mac absently thought that if Louisa Sutherland, the severely elegant owner of the elite retreat for children of the very wealthy, had ever heard them call her that, she’d probably come back from the grave just to kick their sorry asses. At the moment, he’d welcome the chance to kick back.

He skimmed the headline again: SUTHERLAND HEIRESS GIVES UP FORTUNE TO INHERIT FAMILY LAKE PROPERTY.

“This makes no sense,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he reread the article. “Why would Kate do something so stupid for a place she hated?”

“We were teenagers the last time we saw either her or Shelby,” Rafe needlessly reminded him. “Who knows what’s gone on since then. I’m surprised we never heard about Louisa dying, though. She really climbed the social register over the years.”

Mac wasn’t. Unless it was case related, he didn’t read the society columns, much less follow the Town and Country set of Washington or New York. Hell, he’d been surprised when the Sutherlands’ secretary had tracked down Donny Mac’s long-lost son a decade ago to tell him his father had died. Mac had been on the force in those days and not impossible to find, even though he hadn’t spoken to his father since the day he’d left home.

He wouldn’t have thought they’d go to the trouble to locate the camp handyman’s next-of-kin. Though by the time they had, his father was already in the ground, courtesy of the state. Mac had handled the requisite legal and financial details, such as they were, over the phone, and paid someone else to handle whatever was left. He’d never gone back. He had no regrets. Then, or now.

Rafe and Finn figured into the only memories from his past that he’d bothered to keep alive. If not for those ten weeks spent with them every summer, Frank probably wouldn’t have had the opportunity to try and blow him to smithereens today because he’d have long since been dead.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears. Stupid to get emotional over something that had nothing to do with his life anymore, and hadn’t since the day he’d turned eighteen. Doubly stupid to let Kate Sutherland still have any effect on him at all.

“Hard to believe she would swap her entire inheritance with Shelby’s for a place she’d barely stepped foot in back then,” Rafe said, cleaning the rest of the muck off his shoe. “Hell, you’d think they’d be in a race to see who could sell it to the highest bidder and split the profits.”

“Says here Kate plans to turn it into a therapy facility for disabled kids,” Mac read, still not quite believing his eyes.

“No shit? Well, I don’t know. I guess people can change, but you’ll pardon me if I don’t see Katherine Sutherland as benefactor to the needy and underprivileged, any more than her mother was. Hell, your father was as close to charity as the woman ever came, and she worked his ass into the ground.”

Only because Rafe had been there, and only because he’d suffered as much, if not more, at the hands of his own past, was he comfortable speaking so frankly. But Mac wasn’t thinking about his father, or Louisa, or any of that.

He was too busy staring at the picture and thinking about Kate. Even though they’d been teenagers when they’d last laid eyes on Louisa Sutherland’s only daughter, and almost two decades had since past, Rafe was probably right in his assessment about people changing. But then Rafe had never had much patience for Kate, the unflappable, unapproachable, and most certainly unattainable sleek, blond princess of their youth. Mac had pretended the same indifference, but the truth was he’d spent many a fevered night dreaming about her…and hating himself for it. She represented everything he both envied and abhorred. But that didn’t stop him from sporting an almost constant, raging hard-on every time she swung through camp. The grainy black-and-white newspaper photo proved that the ensuing years had done little to diminish her impact on him.

“Did you see that part about the developers sniffing around? What do you want to bet this is all some kind of scam to pull one over on some investment group or something? I wouldn’t put it past either one of them.”

Mac’s attention caught on the last line. Despite several episodes of vandalism and rumors of an attempted buyout by resort developers, Ms. Sutherland hopes to open her camp as scheduled next spring.

“Maybe Shelby,” Mac said. Kate’s stepbrother had always been a creepy little weasel. Mac doubted any amount of time would have ground that out of him. “Kate might have been a little stuck up, but I doubt—”

“A little?” Rafe let out a harsh laugh, then stopped abruptly and tilted his head.

Sirens were closing in.

“Your colleagues are about to show up and we’re standing here in broad daylight with our thumbs up our collective asses. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Rafe tried to take the paper away from him again, but Mac stuffed it in his pocket and took off along the edge of the decaying pier, Rafe right beside him, both of them moving swiftly toward the abandoned sugar refinery where they’d stashed their car from sight.

Mac knew he should let the whole thing go, but his mind was already working, analyzing. It was the cop in him, or so he told himself. But something about that story didn’t add up. As much as he hated to admit it, Rafe might be right; it might all be some scam, a way to get out of paying estate taxes or something. He wouldn’t put it past Shelby. And yet, his detective instincts said otherwise. And what was that part about the vandalism? Where did that come into play?

Rafe reached the car first and jumped in behind the wheel. Mac was still shutting the passenger door as they swung around the back side of the lot and edged out into traffic, two blocks away from the scene of what was now a crime.

“Wonder what Finn will think of this latest twist.”

Mac realized Rafe was talking about the Fortenberry case, not the sudden reappearance of Kate Sutherland. “Finn will think we should figure out where the hell Frank is hiding, pin the bomb-happy asshole to the nearest wall, get Mr. Fortenberry’s ashes back, then get the hell out of here and back to Virginia.”

Rafe maneuvered through traffic heading toward the interstate. As the silence stretched out, he finally said, “It’s that last part that’s bugging you, isn’t it?”

Mac pretended not to understand. “Going back to Virginia? Or getting our hands on an urn full of dead guy? Because I’ve grown to like Virginia. And dead guys don’t bug me much. It’s the ones who are still alive and shooting at me I have a problem with.”

Another few minutes passed; then Rafe sighed and said, “You know, I can handle the rest of this cluster. Finn should be done with the Thomason deal, so he’ll find someone to help me or come up himself. He’d be the first one to tell you to go check this out. Why don’t you just—”

“Why don’t you just mind your own goddamn business, okay?” Mac kept his gaze firmly forward. Rafe knew him far too well. Which, most of the time, was a good thing, since it had saved his ass on more than one occasion. At the moment, however, he’d be more than happy to toss his best friend right into the Hudson if it meant shutting him up about Winnimocca, Kate Sutherland, and anything having to do with their collective past.

Rafe drove on in silence, letting Mac stew.

“No one asked for our help,” he finally bit out. “And I doubt it would be welcome.”

“Probably not,” Rafe said, far too agreeably. “But you and I both know you won’t be worth a damn until you at least dig some on this. No one says you have to see her.”

Mac cast a quick glance at his partner and caught the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. Son of a bitch. He’d probably known all along what effect Kate really had on him. Of course, Rafe had been the first one to explain what they were looking at when Mac had discovered his father’s stash of Penthouse magazines, too. They couldn’t have been much older than nine at the time.

After another long, tension-building silence, Mac swore under his breath. “It would have to be as part of Trinity. Totally professional. A case just like any other we decide to take on. Or not at all.”

Rafe said nothing, just stared ahead as they rolled along with the traffic on Grand Central Parkway. “Whatever works.” He cut across two lanes and took the expressway heading toward JFK.

“Where do you think—?” Mac snapped his mouth shut and shifted his gaze out the side window. “Turn around,” he said flatly, in a tone that used to make even the most desperate, hopped-up scumbag take note. “I need time to prepare for this. Let’s go round up Frank first, finish this job.”

“No,” Rafe said, just as flatly. “Every minute you take right now will be time spent talking yourself out of doing what you know you have to do.”

“I don’t have to do shit. This is not my problem.”

Rafe swung into the airport entrance. “I know it’s not. Trust me, if it were up to me, I’d steer far clear of the whole Sutherland clan.”

“Peachy. Then we’re on the same page.”

“Except it’s not up to me. This one is yours. I’ll square everything with Finn. We’ll get you whatever you need.” He pulled to a stop at the entrance to the car rental counters. “Check in with me later and I’ll bring you up to speed on this mess.”

Mac looked at his partner, fully intending to tell him where he could take his Father Knows Best attitude and stick it, but was caught off guard by the real regret he saw in his partner’s eyes.

“I really am sorry—” Rafe began, but was immediately shut down.

Mac raised a hand. “Don’t. Being an asshole worked better.”

Rafe grinned. “Suits me. Tell Katherine hello from the remaining two-thirds of the Unholy Trinity.” He popped the locks on the doors. “And get some new clothes, man. You smell bad.”

Mac said nothing, just got out of the car and trudged into the rental agency without so much as a toothbrush to his name. The irony didn’t escape him.

You ain’t never gonna escape your roots, boy, no matter how far you run from ’em. Can’t escape your genes, neither. You’ll see.

His father’s wheezing cackle rang in Mac’s ears.

“Looks like you were right about some things after all, Pops.”