Traceless (30 page)

He found what he deemed a worthy window and then he went to work. He explained a few things about security systems: "Magnetic sensors to monitor the opening and closing of windows are costly, especially when you're talking about the whole building. Has to be a hundred windows.

"Most places use glass-break sensors. As long as we get the window open without breaking any glass we'll probably be fine."

Probably.

With the window chosen, she understood why he'd selected this side of the courthouse. The handicapped-accessible side had exterior access to the basement level, including two full-sized windows, whereas the windows leading to the basement on the other sides were small casements. Probably not even large enough to meet the current emergency egress standards.

She would never have thought of this.

He pulled a pair of gloves out of the duffel. "Here." He offered them to her. "I only have one pair; you take them."

"You," she argued. "You're the one whose prints are on file. If they find mine they won't have anything to compare them to."

He considered her reasoning, then tugged on the gloves. She liked that he listened to her. She also found it mind-boggling, since less than one week ago they had been mortal enemies.

From his duffel he removed a glass cutter along with one of those suction-cup hangy things people bought all the time to hang wreaths on windows. After licking the suction cup, which she watched avidly, he stuck it to the glass. He scored the glass and, using the suction cup, pulled the newly cut piece away from the sash, leaving a hole.

"Amazing," she muttered. Just like MacGyver.

Clint cautiously snaked his arm through the hole and unfastened the lock. The window went up and they were inside. He closed the sash and ran his fingers along the wooden edge where the two sashes met.

She leaned close so she could whisper, "What're you doing? Don't we need to hurry?"

"Checking for a sensor that would've set off an alarm when the window opened." He drew his hands away from the window and reached for his duffel bag. "We're good."

"Let's find the storeroom." She wanted this done as quickly as possible. It wasn't that she was afraid... okay, she was afraid. Hazing-week pranks were the closest she'd ever come to breaking the law.

The window had taken them into the property assessment office. The door leading into the basement corridor was locked but allowed for opening from the inside. Once they were in the main corridor and the door closed behind them, they would be locked out of the room.

Before permitting it to completely close and latch, she asked, "Will we be able to get back in here?" She had to assume those sensor things he worried about were on all the doors leading outside the building. Going back out the window seemed logical.

The illumination from the flashlight provided enough of a glow without her having to aim it at his face for her to see him grin, one of those handsome, lopsided dazzlers she remembered from before... way before. Her heart reacted.

"You let me worry about that."

She moved away from the door, and the latch clicked into the locked position. He took the flashlight and started moving from door to door, reading the signs posted on each. When they'd reached the end of the main corridor, he took the shorter one to the right, the only other way to go. This section would lead to the bottom of the stairs that ascended to the first ground-level floor. She stayed right behind him, but she couldn't resist constantly glancing over her shoulder. If the police found her car... would they figure out what she and Clint were up to?

"...has to be it."

She dragged her full attention back to Clint. The sign on the door read: Authorized Personnel Only. She had to agree. If the files were here, this was the most likely place.

"What now?"

He gave the flashlight back to her. "Hold it right there." He directed the beam on the doorknob.

She held the light steady while he retrieved a new set of tools from the duffel's exterior zipper compartment. These looked like the pointy instruments a dentist might use when cleaning and prodding at teeth. Clint crouched in front of the door. Using both hands, an instrument in each, he worked on the lock until something clicked.

He twisted the knob and the door opened.
Incredible
.

"You're pretty good, Austin."

He dropped the tools back in the bag and straightened next to her. "I hope you're referring to our other joint venture in addition to this one."

Heat flushed her face. She had started to tell him she'd have to think about that one when a sound echoed from somewhere in the main corridor. The succession of clicks and creaks that followed was unmistakable. Someone had

unlocked the main exterior door on this level and opened it. A sequence of beeps warned that the security system had been disarmed.

Had to be the police.

Clint would go back to prison. This was a major violation of his parole. Not one of the dinky ones.

She couldn't let that happen.

She clicked off the light and grabbed the duffel he'd left on the floor next to the door. They stood so close together she could feel the tension roiling through his body. She grabbed his shirtfront with her free hand and pulled his face close to hers, then whispered, "Get in there and make sure the door locks behind you. Once we're gone, you get the file and get out of here. Try chronological order first, then alphabetical."

"No way I'm letting you take the rap for this."

"Do it," she urged. "How can we find the real killer if you're in prison?"

Three breath-stealing beats passed before he relented. He slipped inside the room he'd just unlocked. The barely audible rasp of leather soles on the tile floor was closer now. What should she do?

Then she knew. She dropped to her knees in front of the door behind which Clint had disappeared, turned on the flashlight, and retrieved the tools he'd been using to unlock it. She pretended to be hard at work even as the steps moved into the side corridor directly behind her.

Not looking back was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. A bright beam of light suddenly illuminated her position.

"Emily?"

Ray Hale.

She experienced some amount of relief that it wasn't a cop she didn't know. She jerked around, adopted a startled expression.

"What the hell are you doing, Emily?"

He moved nearer.

Suddenly going mute, she found herself holding her breath.

"Where's Clint?"

The tools in her hands clattered to the floor as she stood. Her fingers tightened into fists to hide their trembling. "Why would Clint be with me? This is something I have to do. Heather was my best friend."

Enough illumination lit Ray's face for her to see the skepticism. "You expect me to believe you broke into this courthouse all on your own?"

She thought of all the reasons she had to be angry and she unleashed that emotion on him... the way she'd wanted to the last time she'd talked to him.

"You know damn well he didn't do it." She made the statement as much accusation as argument. "I want to know who killed her, Ray. If it means I have to break in here and get those files you told Clint were stored here, I'm prepared to do that."

"Where is he?"

"I'm telling you he's not here. If I'd told him about my plan he would've tried to stop me."

Ray turned all the way around, running the beam of his light over the corridor again.

She held her hands up surrender style. "Take your time; check every room if you want. He's not here. It's just me. He'd be pretty stupid to do something like this and end up back in prison."

Ray still didn't look convinced. He walked straight up to her, causing her breath to catch yet again, and tried the door behind her. The one leading to the room marked: Authorized Personnel Only. She didn't breathe again until he released the knob and stepped back.

"You know I have to take you in, Emily."

He said this with enough regret for her to believe he might even be sincere.

"Do what you have to do, Ray. I believe in what I'm doing."

"Are you sure about that?"

She stiffened, suddenly scared to death he wouldn't believe she'd gotten this far alone. Though she hadn't put anything in his "Negatives" column, who was to say he wasn't Heather's killer? That theory had fear creeping up her spine.

"Really sure," he added, "that he's innocent? I know your father confirmed his alibi, but you were so adamant in that courtroom."

A burst of anger chased away the thread of fear. She had been adamant in that courtroom... that was true. But now she knew better.

Clint Austin was innocent.

Why didn't his only ally believe that? He'd believed it before, hadn't he? Or had he only felt sorry for Clint? Either way, that seemed to suggest Ray wasn't a suspect.

"Let's go, Emily."

She relaxed. Apparently he believed she'd gotten in here alone. He gathered the tools she had dropped and picked up the duffel bag. She hoped there was nothing in there that would indicate it belonged to Clint.

Ray escorted her to the nearest exit.

"I'll pay for the window I damaged in the property assessment room."

When they got outside, he said, "Just to set my mind at ease, why don't you show me how you got in?"

She led him to the window and explained the process. "I used to watch reruns of
MacGyver
." That wasn't a total lie. She'd seen a few rerun episodes. Her father had liked the show.

"This isn't a game, Emily."

"Yes, it is," she countered. "And whoever is making the rules doesn't want to be caught." The next question came out before good sense could stall it. "You're not making the rules, are you, Ray?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

City Hall

10:35 a.m.

He was going to miss lunch with his wife. He'd been remote so much of the time lately, he hated to let her down even for something as simple as lunch. There was no help for it. What he had to take care of wouldn't wait. Ray could only hope that Sarah would understand... eventually.

Before he left City Hall, he double-timed it up to the second floor to see to a minor bother. He'd left Emily Wallace in the holding cell for the last eight hours in hopes that the solitude and apprehension as to what would happen next might just jolt a little sense into her. She had to stop digging into the past before things got any worse. Her involvement would only give Clint additional motivation for pursuing his quest.

Ray had ordered her car picked up and brought to City Hall. No need to have it impounded. Emily sat up a little straighter as he approached the holding cell. The uncertainty in her eyes told him she wasn't feeling nearly as brave as she wanted him to believe. He'd checked on her a couple of times; once she'd even fallen asleep sitting on that hard bench. He hated like hell to do this to her, but he couldn't have folks breaking and entering county-owned property without repercussions. She needed to understand that she'd gone too far. He'd anticipated that move, but he needed it to end now. For her sake and for Clint's.

Ray unlocked the cell and opened the door. "You can pick up your things at the duty desk. You're free to go for now."

She pushed up from the bench spanning the length and width of the eight-by-twelve cell. "Why?"

Despite the unpleasant task that still lay ahead of him, he chuckled. Emily Wallace, no matter the atrocities life had thrown her way, was still far too naive and kind for her own good. "Most folks don't ask why when given the opportunity to walk away scot-free."

Her gaze narrowed the tiniest bit with doubt. "O...kay."

Ray exhaled, the fatigue clawing at him. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He didn't have any idea when he'd last eaten. He was tired. Mostly he was sick to death of lies and secrets and... murder. Hell, he was as sick of the truth as he was of the deceptions and betrayal.

Emily glanced around as if she expected someone to jump out and tell her she'd just been punked. When she'd satisfied her misgivings, she stepped out of the holding cell.

"Thank you." She met his gaze, uncertainty still holding her own hostage. "Am I being charged with anything?"

Ray shook his head. "I will send you the bill for repairing that window, though."

Hesitation slowed her, just long enough for him to recognize that there was more she wanted to say. But she didn't. She walked away.

"Just one thing," he said, instantly kicking himself for slowing her retreat. Anything else in the way of advice he offered would be too much, and yet he couldn't not warn her. When she turned back to him, he urged, "You need to be extremely careful how you proceed from here, Emily. The truth isn't always what it's cracked up to be."

She had nothing to say to that. Her spine rigid, she pivoted on her heel and strode to the duty desk. He wished he could make her see that things weren't what they seemed.

He'd learned that the hard way.