Nanny 911 (6 page)

He felt the moss-green eyes on him as he watched the dark-haired little girl putting stickers over all of her green velvet dress, and on most of the furniture in the room.

“A protection detail I get.” He detected a softness in Officer Murdock’s voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago. But when he turned to meet her curious gaze, she looked away to speak directly to Michael. “I’m happy to watch the premises or assist his security staff. Maybe we could start by putting a live guard on the front gate. With the way the security cameras are positioned, there was no way for the man inside at the monitors to spot the BMW parked in the next block and scoping out the place.”

“What?” Quinn’s alert level ratcheted up another notch. “You saw a car watching the estate?”

“I couldn’t see much of who or how many were inside—other than an older man in the backseat. They drove away as soon as I showed an interest in them.” She turned to Michael again. “I’ve got the plate number if you think I should run it.”

Michael took the paper she pulled from her pocket. “I’ll handle that. Quinn, do you want me to…?”

Quinn had already dialed David Damiani’s number at the estate’s security office. “David. I need you to run an ownership and identification check for me on a…” He pointed to Officer Murdock. “Black BMW.”

“…on a black BMW.” He signaled Michael for the license number. “Missouri plates C3K-49F. It’s not one of your guys, is it?”

“In a Beemer? No, sir.”

“Then get one of your men out to the front gate. My KCPD guests spotted the car watching the estate earlier.”

“Will do, boss.” Damiani was brusque, but thorough. “I’ll put Hansen on it and get out there to check it myself.”

Quinn hung up. He pulled off his glasses for a moment and rubbed at the headache forming between his eyes. Then he slipped them back on and looked directly at the woman who might just be exactly what he needed, after all. “Now do you see why I need you to be a part of my household this week? I can’t afford to miss anything that could impact my daughter’s safety.”

“You want me to go undercover as the nanny for your little girl.”

“I want you to
be
her nanny. That means staying with her 24/7, seeing to her needs and doing whatever it takes to keep her safe.”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I’m happy to volunteer to provide extra security. I’ve had some experience with bodyguard assignments.”

Quinn shook his head. “A bodyguard isn’t good enough. Fiona’s only three. It’s not like a stranger can tell her to keep her head down and expect her to comply, or reason with her. She needs someone she trusts, someone she’ll bond with. I don’t want the split second it takes one of my security men to react or get her attention to be the split second that gets her killed.” Quinn stood, emphasizing his point and ending the conversation. “She needs a nanny.”

Miranda stood to boldly match his stance. “Then she needs someone besides me. I’m not good with kids. I’ve never had any experience with them.”

Bravo for Michael Cutler’s diplomacy. He stood, as well, diffusing the tension radiating off Miranda. “Then how do you know you’re not good with them?”

Quinn followed up on the logic of Michael’s lead. “I don’t have time to take one of my bodyguards and teach him how not to frighten my little girl. Nor do I have time to train a nanny with the skills you already possess.”

Her proud shoulders sagged for a moment, then stiffened again. “All right, Mr. Gallagher. You have yourself a nanny. I need to go home and pack some gear.” She turned to Michael. “I’m assuming I can use my police-issue equipment and weaponry?”

Michael nodded. “And I’ve got SWAT Team 1 on call to back you up if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.” She gathered her gloves and stocking cap off the desk and reached for her coat on the back of her chair. “When I get back I’d like to meet whatever security you have on staff so I can learn their names, recognize faces, get a handle on procedure here. I’ll want a tour of the entire estate, as well. I don’t want any hidden gates or staff-only entrances to surprise me. I’ll need pass codes or keys to whatever type of physical locks you have on the place.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.” Quinn picked up the phone to call David again. “I’d like you back here by seven. Fiona’s bedtime is at eight, and that’s strictly observed—even on holidays. Maybe especially on holidays with all the excitement. It’s important to maintain her routine.”

Miranda nodded, then pulled her black cap on, camouflaging the femininity of her beautiful hair. “I’ll see myself out. Make sure security locks up after me.”

She paused to look at Fiona, lying on her belly with a water marker and drawing mat, with something like disbelief or even dread on her face. Then she shook it off and hurried into the hallway toward the front door.

“Michael…” Quinn’s heart squeezed in his chest as he watched Fiona arrange her doll beside her and tuck another marker beneath the stuffed hand so that they could draw together. There’d be a hell of a price to pay once he found out who had threatened to take that precious life away from him. “You’re certain Officer Murdock is capable of being a nanny to Fiona?”

Michael was a wise man who knew how to choose his words well. “She’ll keep your daughter safe.”

Chapter Four

Something wasn’t right.

Miranda doused her headlights and climbed out of her truck as soon as she was through the front gates of the Gallagher estate. Pulling her stocking cap low around her ears, she tucked her ponytail into the back of her navy blue coat so that there was nothing to reflect in the lights from the flood lamps mounted over the security cameras there. With a bit of nimble timing, she slipped through the gates before they clanged shut and locked behind her, and she slipped into the shadows of the moonless night.

She stopped behind a towering pin oak to peer up and down the line of walls and ivy. The car was back. Well,
a
black sedan was parked against the sidewalk about an eighth of a mile from the gate. Without proper streetlamps out here, it was impossible to make out if it was the same car from this afternoon.

And where was the guard? Hadn’t Quinn Gallagher ordered his security chief to place a man at the front entrance?

If so, where was he? She’d come in exactly the same way she had that afternoon, punching a button and being cleared over the intercom system. Even though she was now technically a member of the household staff, someone should have stopped her.

She inhaled deeply, then slowly released her breath so that she didn’t create a telltale cloud in the cold air that might reveal her presence. Calming her pulse rate the way she had at the shooting range last night, Miranda reached up beneath her coat and pulled her gun from the holster clipped inside the back of her dark jeans.

Rule 1 of SWAT was reconnaissance. Know your enemy. Know his location. Know his intention. Action was pointless unless you had a plan.

Of course, she’d been checking out a similar hunch about suspicious activity that day the Rich Girl Killer had clocked her in the head and left her for dead so that he could go after his real target. She’d been so intent on proving her worth and saving the day that she hadn’t seen him coming until it was too late to use her weapon, too late to get the jump on him. She’d fought him off, but she was so woozy from the initial blow that she passed out before she could stop him. She’d failed.

Tonight there were some niggling doubts that she could handle this similar situation on her own. But without Captain Cutler, Sergeant Delgado and the others, she was a team of one. She didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing herself. Michael Cutler and Quinn Gallagher were counting on her to do this job. Time to get some answers.

Sticking close to the trees, she crept several yards through the snow, past the parked car. Crouching low, she raised her Glock between two steady hands and approached the car from the rear blind spot. Jeans or not, she still wore her service boots. The composite soles had picked up some melt-away salt and now she was crunching across the cleared pavement.

But she could hear the radio music rocking out from here. No way could they hear her approach. She could make out two silhouettes inside—the driver and a passenger in the front seat. Not the same setup as before. But if one of them had silver hair, then they had a lot of questions to answer.

“KCPD! Open up! Get out of the car. Get out of the car now!” She slipped her fingers beneath the passenger-side handle and lifted, quickly returning her grip to the Glock. “Hands on your head. Get out!”

The sudden blare of music faded into background noise in her head. “What the hell…?”

Both men were wearing GSS Security uniform jackets. And both were slumped in their seats.

Miranda quickly shucked a glove and pressed her fingers against the side of the passenger’s neck. He had a pulse, faint but steady.

She leaned in to turn off the radio and shut down the engine. As she reached across, she took note of the coffee spilled across the driver’s lap, and of the cup tipped over in the passenger’s lax fingers and dripping onto the floor mat at his feet.

Surging adrenaline sparked through Miranda’s senses. The guards had been drugged. Why? She glanced up at the gates. The man in the command center had spoken to her before
un
locking the gates. Was the danger already inside? Were the Gallaghers under attack?

Ah, hell. Her team of one suddenly seemed awfully small and outnumbered. She needed to get help. She needed to sound the alarm.

“Hey!” She shook the man closest to her. Dark hair. The driver was a blond. Neither had been the man watching the estate earlier today. She lightly smacked his cheek. “Wake up!”

He groaned and leaned back, his head lolling against the headrest. But he didn’t wake up. Glancing up and down the street, she saw no sign of anything. No vehicle. No pedestrians. No lights beyond the holiday decorations adorning a couple of the neighboring driveways. Isolated. Alone. Again.

Her breath came hard and fast in her chest. She hadn’t seen anyone when the RGK had blindsided her, either. No, no, no. She couldn’t let those self-doubts get inside her head.

Miranda’s toes danced inside her boots. Treat this like she was on the firing range. Take control. “Think, Murdock. Think.”

She tried to wake the driver, but both men were out for the count. Her instinct was to reach for the radio on her shoulder and call in backup. Only, her hand tapped nothing but wool. She was in her civvies now. She had her cell phone in her pocket. But did she call 911 or Captain Cutler? She had no clue about Quinn Gallagher’s number or his chief of security or…

Her gaze alighted on the dashboard radio. Of course. They’d be connected to the estate’s security office.

But as she pushed the snoozing driver aside to get to the radio, something tumbled from the inside of his coat and landed at her feet. “What’s this?”

She picked it up.

The damp wind whipped at her cheeks, but she was turning cold from the inside out.

It was a little doll. A roughly made, voodoolike miniature of the rag doll Fiona Gallagher always had with her. Only this one was covered in something red and sticky. And instead of beautifully embroidered eyes, this one had two tiny slashes drawn across its face.

A dead doll.

Miranda pulled out a piece of paper that had been tucked inside the doll’s dress. She unrolled the stained note and read the message typed inside.

And then the anger kicked in, casting out self-doubts and second-guessing.

See how easily I can get to you? Make it right,

Gallagher, or this is your little girl.

Uh-uh. Not on Miranda Murdock’s watch.

She put the note back where she’d found it and pushed the drugged driver aside to grab the radio. She had no idea about GSS procedures, so as soon as she had a clear channel and a stern “Who is this?” she went with the whole get-your-butt-out-here-now protocol.

“Hey, whoever’s in the command center, this is Randy Murdock, KCPD. I’m one of you now, and I need backup. You’ve got a situation with your guards here at the front gate. Someone in charge will want to see this. Oh, and you may want to call an ambulance.”

“W
HATEVER THEY SPIKED
the coffee with will have to wait until we can get it to a lab,” Quinn declared. “But this is gelatin. Red gelatin and food coloring.” He tossed his plastic gloves into the trash can beside his desk—resisting the urge to toss the gruesome doll in there, as well. “Probably made with corn syrup instead of water to keep it from setting completely. It’s an old kid’s trick to make fake blood.”

“This isn’t any kid’s joke.” Miranda stopped her pacing on the far side of his desk and came up between his security chief, David Damiani, and her own boss, Michael Cutler. “It’s a very calculated, very sick way to make you feel threatened.”

“It’s working.” Quinn’s gaze skipped from her slender curves to David’s bulk and steaming temper, to Michael’s lanky height and piercingly intelligent eyes, and back to the unblinking intensity of Miranda’s mossy gaze. Was that concern he saw written there? Temper? Fear?

Beyond his own intellect and drive to succeed, one of the things that had aided Quinn in his rise to the top of his field was his ability to read people. David was ticked off that his men had gotten hurt and that all his preventive measures and training hadn’t been able to stop the attack. Michael was thinking, evaluating possible plans of action, trying to come up with a scenario where everyone came out unharmed.

But Miranda? She was a complete mystery to him.

With her gun and plain talk, she was as tough as any man in the room. Yet there was something curiously vulnerable about that tumble of emotions alternately darkening and brightening her eyes. Her blue jeans and plain brown sweater did little to highlight her femininity, yet his body had hummed with a distinctly masculine energy from the moment she’d entered the room—peeling off her stocking cap and shaking that golden ponytail down her back, removing her coat and tossing it onto a chair with that effortlessly sinuous grace of hers.