Читать книгу Undercover Protector - Molly O'Keefe - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE MANAGED to slide open the lock and get through the front door of her new temporary apartment without dropping her overnight bag, her dinner bag, her laptop bag, her purse or, most importantly, her jumbo root beer.

Once inside she put as much of her load as she could onto the floor and surveyed her new home.

Just once she wished for an assignment that required fancy digs. Some place furnished with real furniture that didn’t smell like cat pee. Some place that might actually have a view of something other than a Dumpster.

“Used to wish,” she muttered. She hoped this was her last job. It had to be. She had to get out of the Bureau while she still had something left of herself to get out with. And if Gomez had the stuff to bring down Delgado, she could solve her brother’s murder, clear his name and move on.

It was time—probably past time if her mindset today had been any indication. She wasn’t as focused as she usually was. Something about Gomez kept her off balance, a little too aware of the fact that she played a part.

She’d regroup tomorrow. Stay on task.

Tonight, however, I can enjoy my luxurious surroundings, she thought.

Her apartment, located in an old building off what appeared to be the only nonresidential street in Summerland, was small. Very, very small. She turned right and saw the blue tiled bathroom with the naked lightbulb hanging from the middle of ceiling. She turned left and saw the kitchen-dining room-living room area, complete with Formica kitchen table and chair. She hoped it wasn’t her bedroom, too.

She could have stayed in her own apartment, but she and Curtis had hopes that with proximity she might be able to run into Gomez around town—should he actually leave his house.

She needed to increase her possible points of contact in whatever way she could considering the time frame. One week. It was practically a joke.

She held on to her drink and the brown bag that contained her dinner in one hand and dug from her overnight bag one of the few things—besides her clothing, computer and gun—that came with her from the outside world.

The cruise brochure.

She took the single step required to move her from the hallway to the center of her kitchen. Her heart sank to see the mattress in the middle of the main room. The tiny space was indeed her bedroom, too.

She tried to look on the bright side but couldn’t find one.

Maggie hiked herself up onto the counter, dug out her burrito, and spread the cruise brochure with its gorgeous, shirtless, brown-skinned man out on the counter faceup.

“Hola, señor,” she cooed to the man who could be considered her dinner date most evenings.

At some point Maggie had stopped fighting the sad state of her life and embraced it. She was a workaholic who dreamed of taking a cruise but probably never would because she was too busy working. She also dreamed of having a sex life with a real man, instead of fantasies originating from a New Holiday Cruise brochure. But that was about as likely as Margaret Warren sprouting wings and flying around to dust Gomez’s house.

After Patrick’s murder was solved. Then. Then Maggie would actually take a vacation. Maybe she’d take a vacation and not come back. She’d settle down on some Mexican beach with a beautiful, shirtless man and a lifetime of umbrella drinks. She’d throw out her clothes and wear only bikinis. All day. Regardless of who she blinded with her Irish white skin.

Maggie bit into her bean and cheese burrito with gusto. It’d been ages since her last meal. That coffee at the briefing had been about it all day.

Man, the morning seems like years ago, she thought and took a slurp of her root beer. Odd how meeting Gomez today had messed up her perception of time. Anything before looking into those startling blue eyes set in that even more startling face seemed like a long time ago. She’d gathered from reading his file that he was a pretty dynamic guy, but meeting him was a whole different story.

Caleb Gomez was one of a kind.

Now, he was bait.

She cringed just thinking about it. Gomez didn’t deserve this treatment from the Bureau and she hated being the person to set him up. Not after what he’d already been through for his country. But she and her family were carrying the emotional scars as proof that sometimes life was not fair.

“Patrick.” She said his name out loud and listened to it echo around this empty place that his death had led her to.

Her voice bounced back from the window with its view of the Dumpster to the tiles in the bathroom, reaffirming all her reasons for being in this shabby apartment in this shabby town, ready to betray a good guy who clearly only wanted to be left alone.

Saying her brother’s name kept the driving edge of her pain and commitment sharp. She would not be swayed by Gomez, by fear, by anything.

Delgado would pay for killing her brother.

She only had to prove that Delgado had been behind it.

She took another bite of her burrito, licked the salsa off the corner of her mouth and forced herself to consider brighter subjects for a while.

“¿Cómo está usted?” she asked the guy on the brochure. “Usted es muy hermoso. Puede usted traerme una bebida con sabor a…” She couldn’t remember the words for a fruity umbrella drink. Her poor Spanish echoed around the empty apartment and she cringed.

“I am crazy,” she told the brochure and jumped off the counter to grab her laptop. A little conversation with the outside world was what she needed, even if it was in cyberspace.

She unzipped the case and opened the thin computer, locating the available phone jacks and outlets. She ate a little more while listening to the soft hum and whir of the booting computer.

She opened her e-mail program, thinking she could get a little work done but was immediately sidetracked by an e-mail from Liz Meisner with the word Emergency in the subject.

Maggie rolled her eyes. Of course. Her sister could be counted on for at least two emergencies during every case.

Luckily, Maggie had never been in such deep cover that some family contact wasn’t allowed. The provision was that her real life never threaten the integrity of the case.

This could be another one of Liz’s not-sourgent emergencies or it could be real. Dad’s health was bad, Dan, Liz’s husband, was working overtime, Mom was exhibiting manic behavior in her effort to counterbalance her husband. The truth was they were a family living in a state of semi-emergency.

Maggie grabbed her cell phone and dialed her sister.

“Liz, here,” her bright perky sister answered.

“Emergency?”

“Oh, my God! Mags! I’m so glad—”

“The Starbucks north of Zuma Beach on Highway 1 in exactly a half hour.”

“Uh…okay.”

Maggie hung up and picked up the remains of her burrito. The cheese was cold and her hunger had turned to a dull ache in her stomach.

“You don’t have any sisters, do you?” she asked shirtless man, and tossed the burrito in the garbage.

LIZ WAS TEN MINUTES LATE. Which, in Liz time, was practically early. She entered and scanned the palatial coffeehouse located just off the beach like a starlet looking for her public. Most of the men in the place looked back.

Liz attracted attention to the same extent that Maggie didn’t. Tall, with long legs, and brown hair cascading down her back. Big brown eyes that screamed “Help me” and suckered even her smarter-than-that older sister into offering assistance. Not even the giant rock on her left hand deterred the interested male glances in the coffee shop.

Maggie put up her hand and waved Liz over.

“Mags!” she cried, throwing her purse onto the chair. “Thank God—”

“Where’s the blood?” Maggie asked.

Liz blinked.

“This is an emergency and emergencies while I’m working require blood.”

Liz winced but then smiled—sorry, her smile said, but aren’t I charming and I am your younger sister and who else could help me out but you?

Maggie looked up at the painted ceiling and blew out a big breath. She hadn’t really expected anything different. “Go get me a latte. A big one,” she said and shrugged out of her coat to settle in for whatever tale of woe Liz had for her this time.

If she ever went in deep cover Liz would be beside herself.

“Dan’s cheating,” Liz said a few minutes later, setting down the large lattes and sliding into her seat.

“On you?” Maggie asked, jaw on the floor. Men didn’t cheat on women like Liz—they cheated on other women with women like Liz.

Liz nodded and Maggie suddenly saw the tension and strain on her sister’s face and felt the age-old big sister desire to make whatever was wrong better.

“Are you sure?” she asked, leaning forward and brushing Liz’s hand with her own.

Liz nodded. “He’s gone all the time. He’s getting these phone calls late at night and then he leaves. Just gets out of bed and goes.”

“He’s a cop, Liz—”

Liz shot her an acrid look under her eyelashes. “I’ve been married to him for six years, Mags. I know what the life is like and I’m telling you this is…different.”

Maggie sighed. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Patrick.”

Again, his name aloud straightened her spine and she saw the small muscles in Liz’s jaw flex. The whole family suffered from the same helpless rage that had settled in their muscles and stomachs. Their father already had atrophied so much that no one could even say Patrick’s name in front of him. It was as if their dad was trying to erase her older brother from the family.

Liz shook her head. “He was warned away from the case.”

“When did a warning ever stop Dan Meisner from doing something?” Maggie asked with a smile, trying to tease one from her sister. “If I remember correctly, Patrick tried to warn Dan away from you. That didn’t do much good.”

Finally, Liz smiled and took a sip of her latte. Her brown eyes no longer dull. “True.” Her smile was coy and Maggie sighed. Liz and Dan were a solid couple. Any woman would chafe at being married to a cop—the hours and the job stress weren’t easy. But Dan and Liz made it look easy. The Meisners were a dream couple.

“So.” Maggie finally took a sip of her own latte, the ulcers groaning in wretched protest. “Dan’s just doing what Dan does best, stirring stuff up and trying to solve his best friend’s murder.”

Liz didn’t look convinced, but at least the fine lines of tension were gone from her face and her hands weren’t white-knuckled around her cup. “Is that what you’re doing?” Liz asked, looking at Maggie sideways. “Trying to solve Patrick’s murder?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything.”

Liz shrugged, looking somehow smaller. “I wish I could do something, too. I feel helpless.”

“We all do.”

Liz sighed and then pasted on a counterfeit smile. “I guess I should leave things to the professionals.”

Maggie nodded. “Please do.”

They sipped their coffees in quiet for a moment. Each of them staring out different windows. This was a good Starbucks. Lots of view to be had. Lots of staring out windows to be done.

“I was surprised when you said you were going back undercover,” Liz finally said and Maggie braced herself for the inevitable question. “We all were.”

“It’s my job,” Maggie said.

“Yeah, the job you were going to quit.”

“Liz—”

“What about law school?”

Maggie swallowed the bitter coffee and stood to find a sugar packet and to avoid the remainder of this conversation. “What about it?” she asked over her shoulder, casually, as if they were talking about nothing important.

Liz shook her head when Maggie got back to the table, stack of sugar packets in hand. Maybe the ulcers would like the gut-rotting caffeine sweetened.

“Don’t pretend like this isn’t a big deal.”

“It isn’t.” Maggie lied.

“Pepperdine Law is a big deal. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you were a kid—”

“Yeah, and I think Patrick wanted to have children and watch them grow up,” Maggie snapped. Then she felt as though she’d just kicked a poodle. “I just deferred. I can go later.”

“Later when?” Liz asked.

“Later, later. This is hardly worth discussing right now.”

“Patrick would want you to be happy,” Liz said.

Maggie felt the hot lump of emotion assemble in her throat. She coughed and took a sip of her now-way-too-sweet coffee.

“Mags—”

Maggie pushed the cup away. “I can’t talk about this now.”

“You are just like Dad,” Liz said.

Maggie nodded. So she’d been told most of her life. Recently she’d stopped pretending it was a compliment.

“Just because he wanted a kid in the Bureau didn’t mean it had to be you.”

“Were you going to sign up?” Maggie asked, laughing at her sister. Liz was a gifted magazine stylist—about as far away from special agent as one could get.

“None of us had to sign up. That was Dad’s deal. You didn’t have to take on the job. And moreover you should be able to leave it when you want to.”

“I don’t want to just yet.” Maggie shrugged as if it were that simple. And it was, mostly.

“That wasn’t your story seven months ago.”

“Things changed, Liz. I can’t talk about this now. Let it go.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They both stared out the windows again.

“Are you okay? Emergency over?” Maggie asked, her temper slightly cooler thanks to the rolling waves on the other side of the highway.

Liz nodded, pulling her gaze back to Maggie.

“Something is wrong with Dan, but you’re right, I don’t think it’s another woman.” The shadows that lingered under her sister’s bright eyes indicated something serious was amiss in her sister’s stylized life. Some detail was not going as planned and Maggie did feel bad about that, but she had her own amiss details to sort out.

“It’s only been six months, Liz. Dan lost his best friend.”

Liz nodded, her brown hair gleaming in the low light. Maggie wondered if it was genetics or expensive hair products that created such a shine. Maggie’s hair usually looked like a springer spaniel’s coat—after he’d chased some animal into a hole.

“Okay, I gotta go.” Maggie stood. “No emergencies unless there’s blood next time.”

Liz smiled. “Okay.”

Maggie leaned down and kissed her sister’s head and grabbed her coat.

“Oh, hey, can I borrow some movies? Dan’s been working late and there’s nothing but reality TV on in the summer.” Liz assembled herself to go, too. Flipping her hair and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She looked like a perfume commercial.

Maggie nodded; her sister had her own key to Maggie’s apartment. “Just put them back when you’re done.” It was a useless request. Chances were Maggie would never see whatever movies Liz borrowed again.

“Do you have something with Hugh Grant? I feel like something Hugh Grant-y.”

“Third row down on the bookcase. I’ve got them all.” Truth be told Maggie was often in the mood for something Hugh Grant-y.

“Thanks, Mags,” Liz said. Maggie heard a lot of gratitude in those two words.

“No problem.”

Someone had to handle the emergencies, keep the family together, bring murderers to justice and lend the Hugh Grant movies when they were desired.

Once again, Maggie was the woman for the job.