Catch a Shadow (4 page)

She gave Merlin some dried fruit and seeds and left the door to his cage open so he could fly from room to room with her. Spade followed them.

First the pizza. She nuked it, poured a diet cola, and sat at the kitchen table.

The sealed letter was still there, like the proverbial elephant, on the table. She longed to open it, but it was not meant for her. That darn conscience again.

After finishing the pizza, she went to her computer in the bedroom and Googled Mark Cable. There were a thousand Mark Cables. Same with Mitch Edwards.

So little to go on
.

“Night,” squawked Merlin. She left the computer and went over to where he perched on the back of the small couch. Spade sat next to him. Surprisingly, these two misfits had found companionship with each other.

She rubbed Merlin's head, and he chucked with delight. The parrot had been an unexpected addition to her household. A friend involved with animal rescue had asked her to take care of Merlin for several days. The bird had been found abandoned in a crack house and had pecked away most of his feathers, making him unadoptable.

She'd been just getting over a divorce and had lost her job. She agreed to keep him for two weeks.

Two weeks had turned into three years. Now she couldn't imagine life without the cranky and talkative African Grey parrot, but he required more attention than a cat or dog. Parrots, she'd learned, were sociable birds and did not do well being alone for long periods of time. Sam had turned out to be a great parrot sitter.

Now she found herself talking to the bird. He liked it, and it enabled her to think aloud. “I took a letter today from a patient,” she said. “Shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have made a promise. Might end up jobless again, and then you and I will be on the street.”

He tipped his head, listening intently.

“Not so good, heh?”

He flew to her shoulder. He was uncanny at recognizing her moods. “Like Kirke,” he said.

“I'm glad,” she replied, smoothing his head feathers. “But that doesn't solve my problem.”

He cackled.

“I'll give it a day, try to find this guy, and if I can't, well then I'll just say I forgot about it and give it to the hospital.”

“Dandy,” the parrot said.

She grinned at that. She'd said the word once, and Merlin had picked up on it, just as he did on other words that attracted him. Something about the sound. He would hear a word or sound he liked, then spend days practicing it, driving her to near madness. Sometimes it made sense when he repeated it, and sometimes it didn't.

She liked “Dandy” just now.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll try to get more information about Mr. Cable tomorrow. Maybe a relative has already come forward and knows this Mitch Edwards.”

Merlin bobbed his head, then said, “G'night?”

“Yes,” she said.

He flew through the rooms to his cage and patiently waited for his nightly treat. Then she pulled the cover over his cage.

Exhausted, she climbed into bed. She had another twelve-hour day starting at seven.

Jake stayed at the table in the tavern for an hour. He ordered another beer but just sipped it, wanting nothing to fog his mind.

He knew now no one else was coming, that the man injured in front was indeed the man who had contacted him.

For a while, he'd still had a seed of hope, but that was gone now.

He'd lingered for another reason. He wanted to avoid any contact with a cop.

Now he had decisions to make. Under a different name, he'd flown in late last night and had a reservation to return tonight. Twenty-four hours. He had someone who could cover for him for a few hours but not much longer.

He looked at his watch. A little before six p.m. His flight was at eleven. He had four and a half hours at best to get to the airport. Even then he couldn't be sure he wouldn't be met at his Chicago apartment by the military police.

Jake left the table and went back through the bar area. He hesitated at the door and looked out. Several cops were still there, but their attention was on several investigators taking photos of the blood splatters. Traffic was backed up in both directions.

It seemed ironic that Del Cox might have been fatally injured. He and Cox had shared a few war stories during training. They'd both served in different capacities in Afghanistan and Desert Storm and both spoke Farsi. Their dark coloring and aptitude for languages had made them uniquely qualified to fit into Middle East populations. It had also made them perfect to pose as terrorists to buy weapons.

He'd known Adams hadn't liked the fact that the two of them talked together. Adams and Cox were CIA, and the three Special Forces guys were, in Adams's obvious opinion, mere grunts.

After asking directions to the nearest hospital, Jake returned to his rental car. It took a good a good forty-five minutes before he reached the hospital's emergency entrance. He parked, then went to the reception desk and joined the line.

“I was to meet a friend at a restaurant,” he explained when he finally moved to the front of the line, “but when I reached the place, I couldn't find him. Someone said a man of his general description was the victim of a hit-and-run driver and that he was brought here. I'm afraid it was my friend. He's never late, and if something held him up, he would have called.”

“I just came on,” she said and turned to her computer. “Name of patient.”

“John Foster,” he said, immediately inventing one. He had no idea what name Del was using now, but it wouldn't have been the one given him by the CIA eight years ago.

She looked back at the computer screen. “No Foster.”

“Maybe he isn't in the computer yet. Can you check to see if anyone has been brought in from a hit-and-run?”

She picked up a phone and dialed an extension. “Did you get a hit-and-run in the past few hours?”

She listened for a moment, hung up, then turned back to him. “Yes, we did, but it can't be your friend. We have another name.”

“Terrible thing,” he persisted. “I go to Manuel's—that's where we were to meet—a lot. Maybe I know him.” The last was more question than statement.

“We can't give out any information except to family,” she said, then turned to the person behind him in line.

He turned around. He didn't want to give her any cause to call security. If only he could take a look at the receptionist's computer …

He went through doors to a room full of people in various states of flu and injuries, and kept moving. He would have to find another way of reaching Del Cox.

On his way out he saw a TV news truck. Risky, but he was desperate, so he stuck his head inside. “Hey there,” he said.

A woman looked up from something she was writing.

He gave her the same story he'd given the receptionist. He was missing a friend. There was a hit-and-run. He wanted to find out if the two were one and the same. Because he wasn't a relative, the hospital wouldn't give out information. Could they get the name?

The two inside—reporter and cameraman—looked at each other and shrugged. “Why not?” she said.

She picked up the phone and called the public relations office. In seconds she had a name: Mark Cable.

“Not my guy,” he said. “Thanks.”

He disappeared before they could ask any questions.

Cable. Mark Cable
.

Now, if only he lived.

One down, but now two to go.

Ames Williamson threw the glass of whiskey across the luxurious room and watched as it dripped down the expensive wallpaper.

Dammit, if he'd only had another moment before the ambulance had arrived. He'd been close. So close. He'd even had a hypodermic in his pocket. One second alone, and Cox would be dead. This time for good.

Damned slippery coward
.

But he had seen the waxy look on his face, saw the heavy flow of blood. It would be a miracle if Cox survived.

He had been tracking him for years. Cox was the only one who knew that Ames Williamson, alias Gene Adams, was still alive, and the man had already cost him more than a million dollars. Ames had been unwise enough to trust the man to finish off Jake Kelly, thinking that Cox realized that his own skin was in as much jeopardy as Williamson's.

Ames had already decided that Del Cox, too, would not survive the mission. Unfortunately, Cox was smarter than he'd thought and had disappeared with the airplane, three hundred thousand dollars, and a million in diamonds. Then, to make things worse, Kelly had turned up in a rustic Mexican town. Alive. A most unpleasant surprise. Jake Kelly would search the ends of the world to avenge his men.

Because Cox hadn't finished Kelly, Adams had been forced to spend half a million to put Kelly on ice. He'd expected a far longer sentence than Kelly received. He'd counted on Kelly's fellow officers being outraged by the betrayal. The CIA certainly would have been. Now he'd had to come out of hiding to make sure Jake Kelly never discovered all the betrayals that had led to his destruction.

Time lost. Money wasted. Risks incurred. All because of lily-livered Del Cox.

Had Cox gotten religion? Or figured he could make a deal? Either way, the moment Ames had discovered that someone had contacted Kelly and asked to meet with him, he knew it must be Cox. He was just gratified that he'd had men follow Kelly upon his release and had his phone tapped. He'd known that Kelly would try to find out what had happened and wouldn't stop until he did. He was a danger.

He hadn't expected the bonus of finding Cox. After learning of the content of the phone conversation, he'd stationed two cars around the tavern, then signaled with his cell phone when he saw the man he believed was Cox.

He'd had to make the decision of killing Cox or trying to get both of them together. But he needed accidents. He couldn't afford anything that would reopen the South American deaths. So he'd chosen Cox as his first victim. He could arrange another kind of accident for Kelly. No one would connect the two, since Cox had been officially missing, believed dead, for seven years.

That left the woman and whatever it was Cox told her when he'd given her something that looked like an envelope. If, that is, he'd managed to say anything at all.

Either way, he had to take care of that problem as well.

CHAPTER 4

Coffee
. Coffee first, then a shower.

Maybe then she would feel like a human being again. Maybe. She doubted it.

Kirke hated the hungover feeling from lack of sleep. As well as the guilt that nagged at her.

She'd second-guessed herself all night. Had it been a mistake to keep the envelope? What if she couldn't find this Mitch Edwards? What then? It would be too late to turn it in without laborious explanations. She'd probably lose her job. Yet this letter could be something vitally important to Mitch Edwards. It certainly had been to the hit-and-run victim.

Stubbornness was her worst quality. Once she embarked on a certain path, she rarely retreated. She'd been that way since she was a kid. It was the reason she'd been fired from the newspaper.

She really didn't want to think about that now.

“Where's Sam?” asked Merlin, obviously more concerned about his coparent than her.

“Traitor,” she retorted.

“Traitor,” he echoed in her voice.

Darn. She knew Merlin wasn't human, but she thought he understood more than people believed, that he didn't just parrot words back to her.

He obviously liked Sam, who did not mind an occasional peck on his neck, but Sam wouldn't be home yet. After his nightly gig, he usually had breakfast with fellow musicians before calling it a night. But he had the key to her duplex, and he would pick up Merlin and Spade.

Finish the cup of coffee. Then take a cold shower to wake up
.

Maybe then she would feel like a human being again.

She hurried through her shower, then listened to Merlin complain as he watched her pour coffee into a huge thermos. “Poor Merlin,” he squawked.

“Poor Kirke,” she countered. “She would much rather stay home with you.”

Obviously unconvinced, Merlin gave her his evil eye look, one she'd seen many, many times before they had come to an understanding. Now she loved the fractious bird. Since Jon left, she had no one but Merlin and Sam. She'd lost contact with most of her friends who worked at the newspaper, and the paramedics' schedules left little time for socializing.

But then she'd had no one before that, either. Jon had never really been there for her, and she'd realized after the divorce she'd married in haste because she'd wanted a family of her own. Her own family had been limited at best. Her father had left her mother when she was born, and her mother had died of a drug overdose ten years later. Kirke had been shipped off to a strict, widowed grandfather who didn't know how to love.

She had no intention, though, of ever making a marital mistake again. She'd been abandoned three times in her life, the last by her husband. She was never, ever, going to give someone a chance to do that again. She'd learned to be quite content with living her own life the way she wanted to live it. Two years with Jon's exacting standards had made her appreciate freedom.

Jon would have told her to follow the rules, turn over the letter.

That thought reinforced her instinct to do the opposite.

She took a gulp of coffee, then slipped on a fresh uniform. Her other one was still in the washing machine. The envelope was at the computer where she'd conducted the preliminary search on Mitch Edwards.

She recalled the plea in the dying man's eyes, the desperation. There had to be a reason he did not want it to go to someone in authority.

Wasn't that a reason in itself to give it to them?

A chill ran through her. What if she was involving herself in something illegal? Or dangerous?

Ridiculous. She would be off tomorrow, and she could make inquiries. She would call her friend Robin and ask her to help.