syringe in Lucas’s refrigerator. I’d never disobeyed a mission directive before. In a sense I hadn’t, but I sure hadn’t followed the parameters that had been set up either.
“My friend’s background is from the DOJ crime lab in Sacramento,” he continued trying to persuade me.
I was already shaking my head. I couldn’t afford the scrutiny of credentials needed to get into a government lab.
“She does private work over in the East Bay now. No major security measures.” He assessed me steadily.
“What’s in it for you?” I kept my tone even, mild.
“Information.”
I must be mistaken about his reluctance. “About....”
“My missing person.”
Ah yes. The kid. The man didn’t give up.
“Okay.” Since I didn’t know squat about Staci beyond the basics of her cover information or about Johnny Wishbone, I figured I was safe in agreeing.
I caught the gleam in his eye before he subdued it. He thought he’d played me. Whatever.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Shower and food first.”
“Time’s a wasting. Are you going to let me up?”
He rolled off to the side. Smart man. If he’d pushed up I wouldn’t have been able to resist a sharp jab to his balls. Just on principle.
He tugged his jeans back up. He'd set me up.
Worse, I fell for it.
I glanced at the counter. The Glock was gone.
Lucas opened the house door, punched another code in the alarm box, and started up the stairs. “Grab that duffel, will you?”
Unable to resist, I tugged on the handle of the refrigerator door. Locked.
Then I prodded at the keypad. Nothing.
Running my fingers along the side seams of the refrigerator door, I tested the hardware. The hinges were interior. I was screwed.
I had two choices. One. I could head for the toolbox. Two. I could search the place looking for another way to get that refrigerator door open.
Staring at his butt in the worn denim, I snagged the duffel and bounded up the stairs.
I pulled my gaze back to his face as he said, “For what it’s worth...when you search my place, try not to make a mess.”
And he headed for the shower. Casual as you please.
EIGHT
I should have never let Lucas get the drop on me in the garage. My reactions, my thought processes were off. Perhaps as a result of whatever they’d used to knock me out? It was something I’d have to explore later. I needed my focus back. Now.
I tossed his apartment quickly and efficiently, looking for anything that might help me get that refrigerator open before he finished showering. Like...an instruction manual, but I found nothing.
His desk was Mission style, big, heavy, and scarred. A pile of unopened mail, addressed to Lucas Goodman, lay on the corner. The drawers held nothing but office supplies. No files, no warranty cards, no clues.
I moved away from the desk and on with my search.
He had a collection of Mexican blankets scattered around the room. One was thrown over the back of an overstuffed leather chair and another over the arm of a worn, lived-in sofa.
He liked to read, any kind of suspense, mystery or thriller based on his bookshelves. He had a few favorite authors for whom he chucked out the extra change for hardcover. I’d thumbed through some looking for potential hiding places, or an earmarked alpha numeric code, but all I found was he had a tendency to bookmark with receipts and he always paid in cash.
Lucas Goodman had told the truth. At least about the apartment. And I still couldn’t trust him.
Then I saw the other books. In Spanish.
I flashed back to the drive-thru in Podunk. Obviously, he hadn’t been completely honest.
I moved into the kitchen and quickly rifled through his refrigerator. When the pine floor squeaked, I turned toward the arched doorway.
“Find anything in the icebox?” he asked lazily.
I hadn’t. Not that I expected him to hide anything there. He was too clever. But I hadn’t even found any food, and I was hungry. Frustrated.
The rough material of the chef’s
“My friend’s background is from the DOJ crime lab in Sacramento,” he continued trying to persuade me.
I was already shaking my head. I couldn’t afford the scrutiny of credentials needed to get into a government lab.
“She does private work over in the East Bay now. No major security measures.” He assessed me steadily.
“What’s in it for you?” I kept my tone even, mild.
“Information.”
I must be mistaken about his reluctance. “About....”
“My missing person.”
Ah yes. The kid. The man didn’t give up.
“Okay.” Since I didn’t know squat about Staci beyond the basics of her cover information or about Johnny Wishbone, I figured I was safe in agreeing.
I caught the gleam in his eye before he subdued it. He thought he’d played me. Whatever.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Shower and food first.”
“Time’s a wasting. Are you going to let me up?”
He rolled off to the side. Smart man. If he’d pushed up I wouldn’t have been able to resist a sharp jab to his balls. Just on principle.
He tugged his jeans back up. He'd set me up.
Worse, I fell for it.
I glanced at the counter. The Glock was gone.
Lucas opened the house door, punched another code in the alarm box, and started up the stairs. “Grab that duffel, will you?”
Unable to resist, I tugged on the handle of the refrigerator door. Locked.
Then I prodded at the keypad. Nothing.
Running my fingers along the side seams of the refrigerator door, I tested the hardware. The hinges were interior. I was screwed.
I had two choices. One. I could head for the toolbox. Two. I could search the place looking for another way to get that refrigerator door open.
Staring at his butt in the worn denim, I snagged the duffel and bounded up the stairs.
I pulled my gaze back to his face as he said, “For what it’s worth...when you search my place, try not to make a mess.”
And he headed for the shower. Casual as you please.
EIGHT
I should have never let Lucas get the drop on me in the garage. My reactions, my thought processes were off. Perhaps as a result of whatever they’d used to knock me out? It was something I’d have to explore later. I needed my focus back. Now.
I tossed his apartment quickly and efficiently, looking for anything that might help me get that refrigerator open before he finished showering. Like...an instruction manual, but I found nothing.
His desk was Mission style, big, heavy, and scarred. A pile of unopened mail, addressed to Lucas Goodman, lay on the corner. The drawers held nothing but office supplies. No files, no warranty cards, no clues.
I moved away from the desk and on with my search.
He had a collection of Mexican blankets scattered around the room. One was thrown over the back of an overstuffed leather chair and another over the arm of a worn, lived-in sofa.
He liked to read, any kind of suspense, mystery or thriller based on his bookshelves. He had a few favorite authors for whom he chucked out the extra change for hardcover. I’d thumbed through some looking for potential hiding places, or an earmarked alpha numeric code, but all I found was he had a tendency to bookmark with receipts and he always paid in cash.
Lucas Goodman had told the truth. At least about the apartment. And I still couldn’t trust him.
Then I saw the other books. In Spanish.
I flashed back to the drive-thru in Podunk. Obviously, he hadn’t been completely honest.
I moved into the kitchen and quickly rifled through his refrigerator. When the pine floor squeaked, I turned toward the arched doorway.
“Find anything in the icebox?” he asked lazily.
I hadn’t. Not that I expected him to hide anything there. He was too clever. But I hadn’t even found any food, and I was hungry. Frustrated.
The rough material of the chef’s
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