Читать книгу No Safe Place - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 14

Beth cut through several yards, grateful for the chain-link fences and caring pet owners who kept their guard dogs safe by the fire when it rained. Ominous clouds blocked the setting sun, rapidly darkening the twilight. Enormous trees dotted the landscape of older homes. Above her, leaves in brilliant shades of autumnal gold and crimson remained caught in that stunning moment before the branches grew bare for winter. The wind whipped between the close-set houses, turning the chilled rain into icy, stinging pellets.

Her heels sank in the rain-soaked grass. At least she’d had the presence of mind to grab her shoe in the parking garage. She spotted the glowing lights of a gas station in the distance and traversed a low retaining wall into an alley behind a row of houses. She dodged between garbage cans and detached garages, making her way toward the streetlights at the far end of the block.

Who was Corbin Ross?

One thing was obvious—he was no financial consultant. He’d handled the terrifying situation in the parking garage with far too much aplomb. He’d also known she lived in an apartment. A lucky guess? Maybe. He’d said he’d served in the military, but he hadn’t elaborated. Had he been with Special Forces? Was he a mercenary?

He could be working for the Feds, for Quetech Industries or for Cayman Holdings Limited. None of which boded well for her.

Huddled beneath the awning of the nearby gas station and tucked in the shadows, she ordered an Uber. For the next fifteen minutes, she danced from foot to foot and rubbed her hands together in an awkward dance to keep warm.

She’d collided with Corbin moments after hitting Send. What had he seen? At the very least, he’d lied to her. He certainly wasn’t a financial officer living in the suburbs. Corbin might have saved her life, but he hadn’t earned her trust. Whatever his loyalties, he was hiding something.

With each passing set of headlights, she searched for his car. Would he try and follow her? If he was with the Feds, would he call the police?

From what she’d learned from her dad, the Feds didn’t call in the local police unless they were desperate. They thought cops leaked information like sieves, and they were overly cautious with their loyalties. A fact that might work to her advantage depending on Corbin’s true identity. She didn’t want the world; she only wanted to survive until tomorrow.

Keeping out of sight, she followed the driver’s progress on her phone app and only stepped from her cover when the car pulled beneath the lighted awning.

The Uber driver barely blinked at her unkempt state. Beth mumbled “Union Station” and collapsed on to the worn upholstery.

Once at the train station, she hunched her shoulders and ducked her head, keeping her gaze averted from the ever-present cameras. An overweight security guard wearing an ill-fitting uniform gazed at her from his post. She flashed a smile, and her stomach clenched. How did criminals manage? Appearing innocent while terrified was harder than it seemed and infinitely more exhausting.

She checked the time on her phone, and her pulse picked up rhythm. She’d left Corbin’s house forty-five minutes ago. Time was ticking away. Earlier that week, she’d made a shorter trip from this same station, and had purposefully left her luggage behind on the train. Ensuring the porter found it before a thief had been tricky, but not impossible. She retrieved her backpack from the unclaimed luggage department and ducked into the bathroom.

A harried mother ushered a crying toddler into the stall beside her. As Beth changed, the hassled mother spoke with false cheerfulness to the sobbing child about their impending vacation. An announcement for the next train came over the PA system.

The mother breathed a sigh. “See? That’s our train. An hour late for delays and repairs. If you’re good on the trip, I’ll let you play Super Why on the iPad.”

The allure of digital distraction appeased the toddler more than the promise of a lengthy, dull train ride. Beth waited until they left the restroom before she exited the stall.

She stuffed her clothing in the trash and stared into the mirror. The face looking back at her was pale and drawn, a fitting match for the ball cap, hoodie and jeans she’d donned.

The PA announced the imminent departure of the next train once more, and she tugged her lower lip between her teeth.

For the past month, she’d been in training for her new identity. The instructions from her dad’s former informants when she’d arranged for her false identity had been specific and succinct: Think about your disappearance at least as much as you thought about what put you on the run in the first place.

She crossed the vaulted lobby and froze. A man in a suit was speaking with the uniformed security guard. He flashed identification.

Pivoting on her heel, she ducked behind an automated kiosk, then peered around the edge. The man tucked his badge into his breast pocket, and she sucked in a breath. There was no reason to assume the man was here for her. Corbin didn’t know how she was escaping the city. She tamped down her twinge of guilt. Even if he was with the Feds, she’d turned over all the evidence she had.

She shouldn’t have to die, as well.

The security guard motioned the suited man toward the restroom, and she spun around. They passed beside her, and she carefully circled the kiosk. Once both men were out of sight, she approached the counter and exchanged her ticket. She’d initially planned on heading south on the California Zephyr in the morning, but the unexpected attack in the garage had forced a change in her itinerary. If someone had been keeping a watch on her, she’d best alter her original route. The attendant grumbled but eventually agreed if she paid an extra fee.

Fifteen minutes later she took her seat in a roomette on the Empire Builder train. Her heel tapped against the floor, and she glanced over her shoulder. Loading the train took an eternity, and she peered out the window on to the platform. The excursion was crowded, filled with families and vacationers, but nothing suspicious caught her attention.

The harried family with the upset toddler struggled their way down the narrow aisle in a squall of luggage, cheerful promises of the fabulous trip ahead, and the faint odor of apple juice.

Beth shut the door and tugged the curtains over the square window of her private roomette—a tiny space featuring two facing seats and an overhead bunk that pulled down. The wheels finally chugged, and the train lurched. She exhaled her pent-up breath. As the station faded into the distance, her pulse gradually slowed to a normal rhythm.

An hour into the trip, she almost felt as though she could breathe normally again.

A knock on the door sent her heart leaping into her throat.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice strangled.

“Complimentary beverage and snack service.”

She hesitated, then realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch. Her stomach rumbled. She stood and opened the door.

Corbin Ross stared back at her. “Going someplace?”

She attempted to slam the door, and he blocked the move with his foot. “We need to talk.”

Corbin crowded into the tiny room and closed the pocket door. “Your destination is Portland, I believe. Plenty of time to tell me everything you know about Quetech Industries.”

He’d sat in the lounge car for the past hour sipping water and gathering information as the scenery chugged by the window. Beth had the means and opportunity for the money laundering, but the motive remained frustratingly elusive. People did not operate randomly. Greed and revenge covered most crimes. Though some criminals merely liked to watch the world burn, she didn’t seem the type.

She glanced behind him. “Does this mean I don’t get a snack?”

At the defeated look on her face, he almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Not complimentary.”

Beth slumped on to a chair, and he took the opposite seat. He’d never seen the accountant dressed casually. Wearing a ball cap and jeans with her face scrubbed of makeup, she appeared younger and more vulnerable. His focus slipped, and he steeled his resolve. This wasn’t personal. This was the job. Losing his concentration had the potential to cost lives.

“How did you find me so quickly?” she asked, her expression wan and defeated.

The terror alert was high during the holiday weekend, which meant there was a field agent at Union Station. Corbin had put out a watch for Beth, but her change of plans had caught him off guard.

He’d nearly missed the train. “My keen powers of intellect and deduction.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I caught a break.”

“Are you with the FBI?”

“Homeland Security.” He retrieved his identification from his pocket. “Cyber Division.”

She snorted. “That figures.”

“Don’t you want to check up on me? You should be more careful. I might have forged this identification.”

“At first I thought you might be a mercenary. Except no self-respecting thug would wear his hair cut that way.”

“I was undercover.” He ran his fingers through the close-clopped strands. “Defeats the purpose if I look like a thug.”

He’d been out of the military for two years; maybe it was time to change barbers.

“I bet.” She set her chin in a stubborn line. “I have nothing to say.”

“I don’t believe you.” A muscle ticked along his temple. She was out to save her own hide, which made her both desperate and dangerous. “The truth will set you free. Eventually. Federal prison isn’t that bad.”

“I’m not upset because I’m going to federal prison,” she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m upset because I’m going to die.”

“Relax.” He took off his dark-rimmed glasses and polished the rain-smudged lenses on his sleeve. “You’ve been reading too many spy novels. I’m not going to kill you, Beth.”

“I’m not worried about you.” She leaned forward and clutched her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t even make it out of the city.”

Given the fate of the last accountant who’d tangled with Cayman Holdings, she had good reason to be afraid.

“Tell me.” He replaced his glasses. “How much does it cost to disappear these days?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the toes of her pristine sneakers. “I wouldn’t know.”

The shoes were new. The brim of her baseball cap was stiff and unbent. She’d planned her escape in advance. While he had to admire her careful preparation, something she’d done had tipped off the men in the garage.

“You’re lying,” he said. She hadn’t purchased this ticket under the name Beth Greenwood. “I’m curious. How does an accountant find the sort of men who deal in false identities?”

“Forensic accountant.” She corrected. “I’m a forensic accountant.”

“There’s a difference?”

“About twenty-thousand dollars’ in student loans.”

“You don’t have any student loans.”

Her head shot up. “How long have you been investigating me?”

“Long enough,” he said. “You left two jobs precipitously. I know why you left Quetech, but why did you leave your first job out of graduate school?”

“Oldest story in the book. A relationship gone wrong.”

“That’s not what your file says.”

Her mouth opened and closed. “What does my file say?”

“You should know better than me.”

He schooled his features to remain impassive. Beth Greenwood was an enigma. She was twenty-eight years old, and she’d earned a bachelor’s degree and an MBA from Georgetown. Her father had been a Chicago policeman. She was single and lived alone. Her credit rating was excellent, and she carried zero debt. She didn’t have a car loan, a mortgage or even a student loan payment. She didn’t have pets. Not a dog, not a cat, not a fish. She’d spent more days in hotels the previous year than she had in her apartment.

Her current circumstances bore an eerie resemblance to his own. He ran a finger beneath his collar. He hadn’t had time to change, which meant he was still wearing his suit from work. Beth had worn his suit jacket in the car, and her floral scent lingered in the lining.

A lot of people traveled for work. Not everyone owned a pet.

She glared at him. “Am I under arrest or something?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I have nothing to say.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’d like you to leave. This roomette is private.”

And tiny. They sat face-to-face on seats that pushed together to transform the room into a sleeper car. Their knees practically touched. Outside the tinted window, lights darted past in the twilight. Beth grimaced and flipped shut the curtains. He tapped his index finger against his knee. She wasn’t wholly alarmed by him if she’d closed the curtain against onlookers. A good indicator that he could negotiate her cooperation.

“What do you know about Cayman Holdings?” he asked.

Her complexion paled. “Nothing.”

“Those men didn’t try and kill you for nothing.” His gaze narrowed. “You’re terrified for a reason.”

“If I’m not under arrest, then I’m not obligated to speak with you.” She pursed her lips and stared at the curtained window. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Your dad was a cop, Beth. You know how this works.” Corbin had no choice but to appeal to her conscience. “This is bigger than you and me.”

“I did what I could to help.”

His stomach growled, and he checked the time on his phone. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.”

No need to rush her. There was nowhere to run on a moving train, and he doubted they’d been followed this far. Beth had purchased her ticket at the last minute, and no other passengers had booked travel after he boarded. Her attackers were probably sitting vigil outside her Chicago apartment.

Her gaze flicked toward him. “If you knew where I was, why didn’t you question me before we left Chicago? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

“No time.” He’d counted on her having the information with her. Why run unless she had insurance? Minneapolis was the nearest field office large enough to handle the assignment. “The train was an unexpected detour, I’ll grant you that.”

“That’s why I chose it,” she said. “I still don’t know how you found me so quickly.”

“Trade secret.”

If she hadn’t tripped over the garbage bin, he’d be chasing his tail around the airports and car rentals.

Beth rubbed a weary hand over her eyes, and his emotions softened. No matter her connection to the men who’d tried to grab her earlier this evening, she’d had a shock, and she was still recovering. If he was going to gather information, he had to go easy. Patience wasn’t exactly his strongest virtue, but they had plenty of time to kill.

He stood. “C’mon. I’ll buy you dinner.”

She hesitated before nodding. “All right. But only because I’m starving, and you’re buying.”

“Excellent. We’re making progress already.”

“I have a feeling I’ll pay for this free meal later.”

“Spoken like a true accountant.” He held up his hands. “Forensic accountant.”

His correction earned a reluctant smile. He quickly glanced away.

They made their way down the cramped aisles. Forced to walk single file, his hand hovered near the small of her back in an unconsciously proprietary gesture. Upon reaching the dining car, they claimed an empty booth. The windows domed over them, the passing lights sparkling through the beaded rain. The setting might have been romantic save for the circumstances.

His phone buzzed, and he frowned at the number. “You mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you care what I think.”

The rebuke stung more than it should have. He’d been raised on the Golden Rule. Some part of him always wanted to believe in the inherent goodness in people, and that part was going to get him killed someday if he wasn’t more careful.

“Mr. Ross?” the elderly female voice on the other end spoke.

“Yes.”

“This is your neighbor, Ruth. Remember I brought you dinner when you moved in?”

“Yes. I remember.” He had three others in the freezer. For reasons he couldn’t explain, married women believed that single men were perpetually in dire need of lasagna. “It was delicious. How can I help you, Ruth?”

“You know I don’t like to pry, but you said I could call you anytime.”

“Absolutely.” He lifted his eyes heavenward. “Anytime.”

“There’s a strange car parked in your drive, but no lights on inside. I thought I saw the beam from a flashlight. I can’t tell with all this rain. But something seems suspicious.”

A flicker of apprehension sharpened his focus. “What kind of car?”

“You know, a car. Four doors...”

That narrowed it down. If his house was being searched, the intruder hadn’t tripped his alarm. He’d have been notified by now.

“Are there any other cars parked on the street?” he asked.

He’d fielded more than one late-night encounter with a drunken college kid looking for a party who hadn’t gotten word the frat boys had moved.

“Let me check,” Ruth said.

A lengthy pause followed. The waitress appeared at their table. Following Beth’s order of a chicken salad croissant, Corbin angled his phone away and requested a club sandwich.

“I’m back.” Ruth declared. “Just the car in your drive.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ruth.”

“Would you like me to call the police?” she asked, a trill of hope in her request. “I can hang up with you and call them right now.”

“It’s, uh, probably my girlfriend,” Corbin assured her. He didn’t need an unsuspecting officer stumbling into this mess. “She’s watering the plants while I’m out of town. I appreciate the call. If you see anything else out of the ordinary, let me know. Talk soon.” He disconnected the call before she could continue the conversation.

Beth glanced up from her glass of water. “Everything all right?”

“Not exactly.”

He rested the phone on the table and stared out the window. There was no way the men from the parking garage had discovered his identity. The address listed on his car registration and his Quetech Industries employee paperwork didn’t match where he currently lived. They hadn’t followed him, or he’d have seen their car.

Beth tilted her head. “What is it?”

If they hadn’t traced him, then they must be tracking Beth. But how? Or had she deliberately given someone his address?

His determination hardened. Beth Greenwood had worked with Timothy Swan on the Cayman Holdings case. She had information she wasn’t sharing. She was running. She’d get them both killed if he didn’t stay on his guard.

He had to assume the worst—that she was a knowing accomplice to a money-laundering scheme that was funding a sleeper terrorist cell. At the very least, she must be profiting. Why else would she be involved?

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Give me your phone.”