Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ hadn’t yet bothered with peeling his wallet from beneath the driver’s seat where he’d strapped it with duct tape along with his Glock, a precaution he employed whenever he was playing the part of Al Reagan, or whomever, as he couldn’t afford for anyone to find out his true identity.

      So, he’d followed her. He knew from D’Annibal that she was Olivia Margaux Dugan, an employee at Zuma Software where a gunman had come in around one P.M. and shot all the employees on the first floor. Except Ms. Dugan, who hadn’t been there, but who had apparently returned to the crime scene and phoned 911. D’Annibal told Auggie to go to her apartment and find out if she’d been there.

      He’d been a little ticked off, eager to get back to his messy duplex with all his own things. The last thing he’d wanted was to have to maintain his false identity at this damned, near empty house. It was Alan Reagan’s place, in case anybody came looking, a house really owned by the Laurelton PD that had been used for various reasons, the last being a safe house for a wealthy criminal’s abused wife and children. That asshole was firmly behind bars now, and so Auggie had used the place as his new home when he started surveilling, and then finally working for, Cordova, just in case the gang boss came looking, which he never did.

      When Liv had suddenly jumped in Auggie’s Jeep and told him to drive, he’d unconsciously headed to the house. He’d decided to go with the whole hostage thing and though he was both irked and amused at being tied up, he was intrigued with his attractive and self-proclaimed nutso female captor. He didn’t quite know what to make of her.

      Not that she wasn’t screwed up; he could certainly see that. But then, who wasn’t?

      Only now he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

      He turned his head to listen. She was sleeping on that crappy couch. How, he couldn’t imagine. He felt jazzed and antsy. Earlier, when she’d left him tied to the oven, he’d been aware that he could probably drop his fetters; he’d almost done it, thinking he could call D’Annibal and give him an update. But he wasn’t certain he would be able to put the twine back in place without her knowing, so he’d passed on the opportunity, at least for the meantime.

      He thought about his cell phone. He’d lied to her about the charger. It was here, in his glove box. He’d meant to charge the battery as soon as he got home; he wasn’t much on car chargers, had heard they weren’t good for the phone. But he carried an extra charger in the glove box, so if he worked himself free he could certainly get the thing working. Could call D’ Annibal. But did he want to give up his act yet? He wasn’t sure.

      Hmmm. Had to think about that. If she found the charger, she could plug in the phone herself and if someone called him from the department, the jig could be up anyway.

      He wondered if he could get her to fall for the bathroom trick again. Not that he couldn’t use every opportunity to relieve himself, but there was no emergency imminent yet.

      Again . . . hmmm . . .

      She needed to go to the police. He believed in her innocence. She was paranoid, too, but maybe there was something worth checking out. If he stayed with her, could he get her to trust him a little? He felt a tweak of interest in her and was annoyed with himself. Down boy . . .

      Having decided that waiting was a better option, Auggie closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, at least for a few minutes. He wasn’t certain what was going to happen next, but he might as well be prepared.

      J.J., the medical examiner, scrutinized the body and made plans for it to be shipped to the county coroner’s office. He glanced at September, who was watching from the sidelines. “Helluva day, huh?” he said.

      “Helluva day,” she answered. This was the second time today they’d been at a homicide together, and it was looking like the crimes were related. Her cell phone buzzed and she answered it to learn that they had the warrant to enter 20B, Olivia Dugan’s apartment, and 21B, Trask Martin’s. Hanging up, she signaled Waters, who then kicked in the door to 20B.

      She and Waters did a quick run-through of Dugan’s premises. The place had that unlived-in feel of someone who had few personal possessions. The closet looked as if Olivia had been home and ransacked it, and one of the drawers was half-open. September plugged in the answering machine on the way out, but any messages had been wiped off. She and Waters then headed back outside where J.J. and his crew were covering the body they’d lifted onto a gurney. September was getting ready to go to 21B when a woman pushed herself past the group at the bottom of the stairs, to their shouts of dismay, then barreled past one of the techs climbing the stairs, who yelled, “Hey!” at her as she practically threw him aside in her headlong rush.

      September stepped in her way before she got to the gurney. The frantic young woman clawed at her as she tried to get to the body, screaming, “Trask! Trask! Oh, God. Trask!”

      “This is a crime scene!” September clipped out, grabbing hold of her flailing arms. “Who are you?”

      “Is that . . . is that . . . please, God, tell me it’s not Trask!”

      “He’s not been identified yet,” September declared, though it was a pretty good guess it was indeed Trask Martin who lived at the end of the balcony.

      “My . . . my apartment,” she murmured, looking past September toward the door to the end unit. “I’m Jo.” Then she slumped as if her bones had suddenly turned to liquid.

      September caught her, then pulled her aside as Journey and his team wheeled the gurney toward the stairs. Jo suddenly jumped forward and pulled at the cover, exposing one male, bare foot. Seeing it, she started crying and ripping at her hair. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” She jerked around, her eyes wild. “I’ve got to go with him. I’ve got to be with him!”

      “You live in apartment 21 on this level?” September asked her.

      “Yes. With Trask!”

      “May we go inside?”

      “No.” She was stumbling after the body, crying, but now she turned toward the door to her unit. “He needs shoes,” she said, staggering past September and through the door to 21B.

      September followed her to the entry and looked inside. She could smell the leftover scent of marijuana.

      “You can’t come in!” Jo declared.

      “I have a warrant. I’m just being polite.” Jo was crying and hiccuping, and September added, “I don’t care about the dope smoking. But I need to find who did this.”

      “Okay,” Jo said, gulping. “I—I—is he okay? He’s gonna be okay, all right, yeah?” Her eyes were pleading.

      September’s silence was enough of an answer. Jo stifled another scream and fled into the bedroom, ripping through the shoes in the closet and pulling out a pair of men’s worn leather boots. “He never wears shoes. He needs to wear shoes. I always tell him, ‘Trask. Put on some shoes. You never know when you might need them.’” Tears puddled in her eyes. “He needs them. . . .” Then she ducked her head and sank to the ground and the tears started dropping onto her chest.

      “Would you like me to take you to the coroner’s office?” September asked gently.

      She flinched at the word.

      “His name’s Trask?”

      “Trask Burcher Martin.” СКАЧАТЬ