Deadly Force (16 page)

“Are you nervous?” Sam asked, his eyes on her breasts.

“No. There’s no way I’ll win. I’m just going to enjoy the experience.”

Chapter Sixteen

By the end of the day, Claire’s shoulder ached and she was tired of being positive. With her arm in a sling, she had to make some sort of explanation.

She’d soft-pedaled the truth. No sense in blurting out
Someone tried to kill me!
That was a buzz kill. Plus, she didn’t have the same trust that she’d had a week ago. All she said was
Wrong place at the wrong
time
and
That will teach me to shop.

She’d just finished clearing her desk when her desk phone rang. She picked it up. “Claire Fontaine.”

“I’m downstairs in the lobby,” Sam said.

She didn’t waste any time. When she reached the lobby, he was standing close to the elevator doors. He looked really irritated.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I got here a little early and saw the
mail guy. I followed him around for a while. I didn’t realize that he pushed around a big cart. I figured he carried a bag, sort of like a postal carrier.”

Claire shook her head. “We get a lot of sample products coming to us in big boxes. I guess the cart helps.”

“He leaves the cart in the hallway when he goes into an office. Anybody could go by and add an envelope to the pile. They
wouldn’t even have to work in this building.”

She got it and understood his frustration. “Well, maybe that makes me feel better. Someone I work with didn’t send that note.”

“We don’t know. Damn it, we just don’t know.”

She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with a kiss. “Can we forget about it for a little while?”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry. This is your big night. How’s
the shoulder, by the way?”

“Still there,” she said. She started walking fast. “Let’s go. We’ve got only ninety minutes to get ready and get back to the awards ceremony. Victor will have a stroke if I’m late. He’s already on edge about Pete. I don’t want to be the heavy rock that pulls him over the edge.”

“Now what’s up with Mission?”

“He left mid-morning. Said he wasn’t feeling
well. I heard Victor tell him to go home and get some sleep because he expected him to be at tonight’s event.”

Sam gave her a quick glance. “I spoke to Mission this morning.”

“You did? Why?”

“I wanted to know where he was yesterday.”

“Was that really necessary?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. But he had an alibi that checks out. His dentist has Sunday hours for emergencies. He
was there, getting a bad tooth fixed.”

“Maybe that’s been his problem. Anyway, I knew he wasn’t behind this. He’s a friend.”

Sam held up a hand. “Please. I don’t really want to hear how wonderful he is.”

She smiled at him. “Or how nice his teeth look?”

“Either.”

The afternoon traffic ate up twenty minutes. Claire walked inside Sam’s house, dropped her things on the chair
in the hallway and said, “I’m going to go take a shower.”

She took a fast one and walked into the bedroom wearing just a towel. On the bed was a big white box with a bright blue bow on it.

Sam was standing in the doorway.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s for you.”

She frowned at him. “It’s not my birthday.”

“That would be so predictable.” He took a step into the room.

She felt nervous. Couldn’t explain why, but this was the first gift that Sam had given her.

“Allow me,” he said with a glance at her arm. He pulled off the lid and set it aside. Then opened the tissue paper.

She felt a ping in the middle of her chest. Her dress. Her beautiful dress. “What?” she asked. She licked her lips. “How?”

He laughed like a little kid at Christmas. “I
never thought I’d see you speechless. It makes me feel as if I’ve finally gotten the upper hand.”

“But I took the last dress in my size. I was going to wear one of my work dresses. I figured it would have to do.”

“Tom Ames took the red eye to New York LaGuardia. He was waiting at the store when they opened. He had time for a late breakfast in Manhattan before he caught a noon flight
back to Chicago.”

She could feel her throat closing up. Sam had made all this happen. It was absolutely the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. She could feel tears gather behind her eyes.

“Oh, no,” he said, waving his hands. “No crying. Even happy tears make me fumble around as if I had four thumbs.”

She swiped her free hand across her face and smiled the best she could.
“I’m living a life of extremes,” she said. “Some really bad stuff. And then there’s this. And what we had last night. The most wonderful things. Thank you, Sam. Thank you for everything.”

He leaned close and brushed his lips across her cheek. “Put your dress on, pretty girl. We don’t want to be late.”

* * *

T
HE
AWARDS
DINNER
was at the Minotta Hotel, one of the newest, hippest hotels
on Michigan Avenue. The event was on the fortieth floor, in a room that had a wall of windows, allowing attendees to see for miles. It was a dark, clear night and the vastness of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs was a collection of sparkling light.

“Oh, my God,” Hannah squealed when she saw Claire. “You’re so hot, even with your arm in a sling.” The woman turned toward Sam. “And you’re
not so bad yourself, Detective. Nice tux.”

He managed to mumble a thank-you. He’d been pretty much tongue-tied ever since Claire had put on the dress. She was stunning. There was no other word for it.

She truly took his breath away.

“Our table is over here,” Hannah said. She led them over to a round table for eight that had a white linen tablecloth, fresh flowers and more forks
than he had in his entire house.

Claire’s boss, Victor, was there along with his wife on one side and his sister on the other. Marcy wore a skintight blue dress that left nothing to the imagination. Her eyes had so much makeup on them that he was surprised she could keep the lids open. Next to her was her date, Terry. He barely looked up from his phone when Victor made introductions.

Hannah sat next to Terry, Claire slid in next to her and then Sam. That left one open seat between him and Victor’s wife.

Great. He’d be rubbing elbows with Mission all night.

Better that than letting Mission anywhere near Claire’s bare, silky skin. He’d reach for the salt, brush his arm up against Claire and Sam
would
have to kill him.

“I can’t imagine Pete would miss this,” Hannah
said as she helped herself to some fancy stuffed cherry tomatoes offered by a passing waiter. She signaled to a young man twenty feet away who had a tray of chilled shrimp.

“I just talked to him,” Victor said, squirming in his chair. “He’s on his way.”

Good. As distasteful as it would be to sit next to the man, Sam wanted him close. Where he could watch him.

Cruz and two other detectives
were already in the room, spread out at three different tables.

Salads had already been delivered and half eaten before Mission arrived. He was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes, making the story that he wasn’t feeling well pretty believable. Sam hoped it was his tooth and that the fool wasn’t contagious.

Mission nodded in Sam’s direction but didn’t speak. During dinner, he
talked with Victor’s wife and answered the occasional question or comment that Hannah volleyed over the table. Dessert had been served and coffee poured when a young woman, wearing a headset, approached the table. She squatted next to Claire but spoke loudly enough to include Mission.

“We need the award finalists up on stage,” she said. “You’ll be introduced fifth, Mr. Mission, and you’ll
be the sixth and final introduction, Ms. Fontaine.” She motioned for them to stand.

Claire looked longingly at her chocolate mousse.

Sam leaned toward her. “Do you want me to put it in my pocket?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes and pushed back her chair. Mission got up and stood next to her. Sam expected headset girl to lead them up onto the stage, but instead, she wound her way
through the tables until she reached the rear of the room. There were four other people already standing there and Sam assumed they were the other finalists.

He relaxed a little when he saw that Cruz was within twenty feet of the group. But then his heart kicked into high gear when the woman opened a door and ushered the group into the hallway.

He motioned to Cruz to follow them and
waited impatiently for Cruz’s voice to come through his earpiece.

“Okay here,” said Cruz. “The group is backstage. I’ll wait outside this door.”

Sam tried to calm down. He did not like having Claire out of his sight. The lights on the stage went on and a man wearing a bad-fitting tuxedo walked to the microphone. He introduced himself as the president of the advertising association. He
rambled on about the history of the association, the ways the organization supported and educated its membership and finally, the importance of recognizing extraordinary talent.

When he announced that one of the six finalists would take home a $15,000 check, a titter ran through the crowd.

He knew the money would help Claire. She probably didn’t make a whole lot and rent was expensive
in Chicago. And given that Gregory Fontaine had let it slip that he and Lucille weren’t in Claire’s financial corner, he’d understood the comments about money that she’d let slip.

He had some money. Had been a good saver for the past ten years. He’d give her whatever she needed.

The screen behind the emcee lit up, flashing a picture of one of the finalists. They read a brief bio and
then the screen changed. It was the design entry, a full-page ad, and it was hawking soap.

The same thing happened again and again. Three more finalists, three more products—toothpaste, stainless-steel pans and life insurance. Finally, it was Mission’s turn. When his face flashed on the screen, Sam took quiet delight in noting that the man’s ears weren’t quite level on his head. However,
when Mission’s design flashed on the screen, Sam did have to admit that it had some appeal. The product was designer shoes. An angel, with flowing gold hair, dressed in a long white gown was sitting on a white cloud in a soft blue sky. The only bright color was her three-inch red heels. Slightly above her, St. Peter was sitting at the entrance of the Pearly Gates looking impatient. The caption above
the angel was “I’m not coming without my Binockis.”

Then Claire’s face came on the screen. It was a good picture. The camera had caught the life in her eyes, the glow of her skin, the sparkle of her smile. Sam had the craziest inclination to stand on his chair, pound his chest and proclaim to the room that
this is my woman.

Except that would cause Claire to run out onto the stage, grab
the microphone and set the record straight.

The screen changed and it was her design. The product was a lawnmower and several blades of grass were discussing the cut in a manner similar to how a woman might discuss her experience at the salon. It was fresh and funny and different than anything he’d ever seen.

He wasn’t any great judge of the finer points of an advertising campaign, but
he knew what he liked and he thought Mission’s and Claire’s were the best.

The man on the stage waved his arm. “Let’s have a big round of applause to welcome our six finalists to the stage.” He announced the first woman’s name.

In she walked. She shook hands with the emcee and took a spot in the first of six circles that had been taped to the stage.

The next finalist was announced
and the routine repeated. She took her spot.

It bore a very creepy resemblance to the beauty pageants that he’d seen when he was in junior high and thought it was cool to look at the girls in their swimsuits. He hoped that Claire wasn’t going to have to answer a question about how she would make the world a better place.

Finalist three and four were announced. Then, the emcee called
for Mission.

After twenty seconds, the crowd started getting restless. Sam lifted his hand and spoke softly into the microphone that was clipped to his shirtsleeve. “Status, Cruz?”

“No activity. What’s going on?”

“Mission is AWOL.”

The emcee leaned closer to the microphone and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Pete Mission.”

Still nothing.

Something was very, very wrong.

The emcee flipped his paper over. “Claire Fontaine,” he said.

There wasn’t even a rustle behind the curtain.

They were both missing.

Chapter Seventeen

Sam moved fast. He vaulted up onto the stage, ignoring the other startled contestants. From behind him, he heard one of the officers in the back yell, “Police. Stay in your seats. I repeat, stay in your seats.”

He pushed through the heavy curtains into the backstage area. It was dimly lit and empty. He could feel adrenaline whipping through his body and he
fought to calm himself down enough to function. Claire’s life might depend upon it.

He saw the door on the right that led to the hallway where Cruz still waited. They hadn’t gone that direction.

He turned left. It wasn’t a large space—there was no place to hide. But then he saw the door. It was really a half door, just wide enough to slip inside. There was no knob, just a spike hammered
into the middle of it.
Costumes
was scrawled across it in red paint.

He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster, opened the door and stuck his head around the corner. It was jammed with racks of long dresses on both sides, leaving only a small aisle in the middle.

Claire and Mission were standing at the far end of the room, no more than twelve feet from him. Claire’s good arm was wrapped
across her body, with the palm resting on her sling. Her lips were pressed together, as if she was very angry. But she didn’t look hurt.

Mission had his hands in his pockets and his face was red. He looked miserable.

“Claire?” Sam asked.

“I’m okay, Sam,” she said, looking at his gun.

He kept it pointed at Mission. With his other hand, he motioned for her to come to him. When
she started toward him, he watched for Mission to make some move to yank her back. But he did nothing.

When Claire got close, he wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her in tight. He sucked in a deep breath, pulling her scent into his lungs. Then he did it again and finally started to feel settled. He lifted his arm and spoke into the wire. “I found both of them. No injuries to report.”
He brushed his lips across Claire’s forehead. “What the hell is going on?”

“Pete had something he needed to tell me,” she said.

“And he had to tell you right now?” Sam asked. “There are two hundred people out there waiting for you.”

She pressed her lips together. “He stole my design,” she said, her tone flat. “I had two ideas and I worked up both of them. In the end, I had to pick
one, not realizing that he’d gotten keys from his friend, the super, and broken into my apartment. He wasn’t able to access my computer files because I had them password-protected. He saw the hard copies and that was enough for him to copy the idea.”

Sam looked at Mission. “You lazy, dishonest son-of-a—”

“I already called him worse,” Claire admitted, smiling for the first time. “He had
to tell me before I walked out on stage and realized the truth. He didn’t trust that I wouldn’t blurt something out and the whole world would know.”

“You didn’t think this through, did you?” Sam asked Mission.

Mission shook his head. “I didn’t expect to final. I’ve entered for over ten years and never been a finalist. I tried to get out of the contest, but Victor wouldn’t hear of it.
The well was dry. I just needed a little spark.”

Sam shook his head and turned toward Claire. “What happens now?”

“Pete and I are going to take our spots on the stage. We’re going to get through this night without creating any bigger scene. If Pete wins, he’s going to donate the award to charity. Right, Pete?”

Mission nodded.

The urge to beat Mission into a bloody pulp for
giving Claire even one moment of distress was pulsating through his veins. The bastard had entered her apartment without permission, had stolen her work, had violated her trust. He needed to pay.

But then Claire turned to him and softly said, “Please, Sam, let me just get through this.”

“What’s the story you’re both going to tell?” Sam asked. “People are going to want to know what caused
the delay.”

“All we need to say is that Pete wasn’t feeling well. Faint, really. Right, Pete?”

He nodded, looking miserable.

“Are you going to tell anybody the truth?”

Mission lifted his head. “I’ll tell Victor tomorrow.”

At least the jerk was taking some accountability. “Okay, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Sam said. He pulled Claire aside and motioned for Mission
to precede them out of the narrow room.

Pete caught the emcee’s attention. The man hid his annoyance at the delay fairly well, and he got the crowd quieted down. He announced Mission and Pete walked out to his designated circle.

Sam pulled Claire to him and kissed her. It was fast and not nearly enough, but he could not let her walk away without tasting her. “I was scared,” he admitted.

She smiled at him. “I didn’t think anything shook Sam Vernelli.”

Losing her wouldn’t just shake him. It would destroy him.

“Claire Fontaine,” the emcee announced.

He pulled his arm away. “Go,” he said. “They’re fools if they don’t pick your design to win.”

Claire walked onto the stage, took her spot and within minutes, the advertising association proved how smart they were
when they announced that Claire was the winner.

The other finalists congratulated her, the emcee handed Claire a check and Claire stepped up to the microphone.

She handled it like a pro. She thanked the association and thanked Victor and her coworkers for the guidance and mentoring that they’d given to her. Then she almost brought him to his knees when she turned slightly, made eye contact
with him and said, “It’s especially wonderful to have people who are important to me here tonight to share this honor.”

He was important to her.

That was good, ’cause he loved her.

Had probably known it for a while, but tonight, when the possibility loomed that she was hurt or missing, he could no longer deny it.

* * *

S
AM
TOOK
C
LAIRE
OUT
for a late dinner. They ordered
steak and lobster and a bottle of expensive wine. “It’s on me,” she said, laughing. “I really can’t believe it.” She picked up her cell phone, which was buzzing. “It’s a text from Nadine. I sent her one letting her know that I won.”

“What does it say?” he asked, leaning to read it.

“Just ‘congratulations’,” she said, throwing her phone into her small evening bag.

“What are you going
to do with all of it, moneybags?” Sam asked. “Bury it in the backyard?”

“I don’t have a backyard, but I don’t intend to carry it around. I’ll take it to the bank tomorrow. It’s nice knowing I’ve got a little breathing room. I’ll sleep better now.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Not that I haven’t slept pretty good the last several nights.”

They hadn’t done all that much sleeping. “Me, too,”
he said. “Although I’d sleep better if we’d been able to find the connection between you and Sandy Bird.”

“I know. Maybe there is no connection. The burglary. Sandy Bird. The horrible phone message. That stupid note at work. Maybe they were all just a series of random events.”

“I don’t think so. Don’t let your guard down. Stay watchful.”

She leaned toward him and whispered in his
ear, “How about you watch me. I’m going to...”

He listened. And his heart rate sped up. He signaled for the bill. “Tell me again,” he said.

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
,
Sam waited outside his house for Cruz. He’d asked his partner for a ride to work after Tom Ames had asked to borrow his SUV to drive his mother to see her parents. The young man said he wasn’t sure his mother’s old car
would make it.

Sam was happy enough to loan the vehicle. He owed Tom. Detectives were required to use squad cars during the day. He and Cruz usually drove separately to the pickup lot, but he’d called Cruz earlier that morning and asked him to swing by.

Cruz being Cruz was ten minutes late. Sam was just about to call him on his cell phone when his friend pulled up in his gray Toyota.
Sam opened the door and had to pick up a to-go container off the seat before he could sit down.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, tossing it over his shoulder.

Cruz drove with one hand and patted his stomach with the other. “Biscuits and gravy, topped with sunny-side up eggs.”

Sam frowned at his partner. “Have you
had
your cholesterol checked lately?”

Cruz kept his eyes on
the road. “It’s just numbers.”

“Numbers that will kill you.”

Cruz sighed. “Let me know when we’re done with today’s public service announcement.”

Sam didn’t respond.

Finally, Cruz turned toward him. “I got a call from Franco this morning. He’s been asking around about pawnshop girl and he said she’s dropped off the face of the earth. Some of his friends are real disappointed
because she sold good drugs at a reasonable price.”

Sam clenched his fists so tight that his fingers hurt. “Electronics are stolen and then pawned by someone who deals. Then a nice suburban woman randomly picks the same apartment to break into and threatens to kill the occupants. Then Claire gets a call from some idiot where the man clearly knows information about a confidential police investigation.
Then there’s the note Claire gets at work. No wonder we can’t make any progress. None of it makes any sense.”

“Maybe we’re adding two and two together and coming up with five,” Cruz said.

“This isn’t algebra,” Sam said, barely able to keep his temper.

Cruz looked over and studied him. “Maybe not, Sam. But it is a puzzle and it’s our job to put the pieces together.”

“I know
what my job is.” He stared out the window, seeing but not really seeing the passing streets. Everywhere he looked, people walked and talked on their cell phones and sipped big cups of coffee. As if they didn’t have a care in the world.

He watched two young punks, neither a day over sixteen, saunter up the street, hands in their jacket pockets. The two of them went into the coffee shop on
the corner.

Hell. What kind of worries could they have if they could afford a four-dollar cup of coffee?

He and Cruz were almost past the shop, almost past the big front window when he saw it. If he hadn’t been looking, if the sun hadn’t been shining just right through the plate glass, he’d have never seen the man behind the counter, his hands in the air, or the boy-turned-perp, his
arm waving wildly around, a gun in his hand.

“Stop.” He pointed toward the curb with one hand, reached automatically for the radio, and came up empty. He yanked his cell phone out of his suit coat pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

When the phone was answered he didn’t waste any time. “This is Detective Sam Vernelli, Area 5, Violent Crimes. We’ve got an armed robbery in progress at the Tasty Mill—it’s
a coffee shop at the corner of Houston and Applewood. My partner and I are going in. We need backup, no lights or sirens. No pass-by.” He didn’t want the creeps looking up, seeing a blue-and-white go by and freaking out. He waited just long enough for the operator to read back the location and he hung up.

Cruz pulled into an empty space and they were out of the car and moving fast. They stayed
close to the building. Sam knew that even if one of the perps was doing lookout, he wouldn’t be able to see them unless he stuck his head out the door. “I’ll take the back,” Cruz said. “I’ve been in this place. Door opens into a hallway with a couple of restrooms. Right past them is the dining room. Give me forty seconds,” Cruz said and started running for the back door.

Sam edged forward,
his back against the brick wall. Counting. When he got to thirty-five, he raised his gun. At thirty-eight, he swung his body around. At forty, he was going through the door.

Cruz exploded from the back at exactly the same time. “Police. Drop your weapons,” Sam yelled. “Now!”