Kill and Tell Read online

  He ran his hand over his face. The operative word before had been affair. Now the emphasis was on the other word.

  Love. He'd never been in love before. He had greatly cared for some of his lovers but never before felt this fascination, this obsession, with a woman. He loved her, and it scared the shit out of him. What if he did the wrong thing? He seemed to be walking a delicate tightrope between not coming on so strong that he scared her off, and holding back so much that she thought he didn't care at all.

  To hell with it, he thought. From now on, he was going to go with his instinct, which was to move as fast as possible and make damn sure she and everyone else knew his intentions. The primitive urge to stake his claim went beyond the physical; making love to her was wonderful, but he wanted all the legal ties, he wanted his ring on her finger for all to see.

  But where in hell was she?

  If he knew Karen, she had worked last night, never mind having gotten very little sleep the night before, never mind the hassle of navigating airports and wrestling luggage. He hadn't called earlier because he figured she would be asleep, but it was late enough now that she should be awake. Night had fallen, and the Quarter was alive with tourists looking for good food, hot music, cheesy strip joints, all of which were readily available.

  It occurred to him that she didn't know his home phone number, and she couldn't get it by calling information because it was unlisted. He dialed her number again and left a third message, giving her the number and ending with, "Call me, sweetie. No matter what time you get home, call me."

  She did have his voice-mail number, though. Just on the off chance she had called it, he punched in some more numbers and listened to his messages. There were only two, one from a gutter punk trying to make points by feeding him some info he'd already had for two days, but the second message was from Karen. His heart thumped against his ribs when he heard her voice.

  "This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me. I'll be on flight sixteen twenty-one, American, arriving at ten-thirty in the morning."

  Every hair on his body stood up. Swearing, sweating, Marc waited to see if there was an addition to the message telling him where to reach her now, but the line clicked off, and nothing but silence followed.

  God damn it! He stood and slowly paced around the living room, thinking. This had to be tied to her father, just like the Medina murder. But how? Why? A comparison of the slugs taken from Rick Medina hadn't matched the one that had killed Dexter Whitlaw, but just because they hadn't been killed with the same weapon, that didn't mean the murders were unconnected. Neither was this. Every cop instinct he had developed after years on the job told him Karen was in danger for the exact same reason her father had been killed. The problem was, he didn't know why, he didn't have a clue who was behind it, and Karen was evidently in hiding somewhere and he didn't know how to get in touch with her.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered, and picked up the phone one more time. He had some instructions for Shannon.

  The only seat available on the flight was a window seat, in the very last row. Karen stared down at the blue bowl of Lake Pontchartrain and the brown coil of the Mississippi River, with New Orleans sandwiched between them. It had all started here, with Dexter. Even if Marc wasn't interested in her personally, he would still help her, because he was a good cop, and Dexter had been murdered in his territory.

  She still hadn't talked to him. When she called from a pay phone last night, she had gotten his voice mail again. The message she left was to the point: "This is Karen. Someone is trying to kill me." Then she gave him her flight number and arrival time and was too tired to think of anything else to say, so she hung up.

  Maybe going to Marc wasn't such a bright idea, but he was the only person she could think of who might help, and she would certainly be safer in New Orleans than she had been in Columbus. She had had to use her real name to get the airline ticket, since passengers were now required to show a photo ID when checking in for the flight. Assuming her pursuer had the expertise, contacts, and funds, he would be able to trace her movements to New Orleans, but once she was there, she planned to check into a motel under a false name and pay cash, so there wouldn't be a paper or electronic trail for him to follow. New Orleans was a big city, a tourist city, with thousands of tourists every week and a lot of hotels and motels to accommodate those tourists. She could easily hide.

  It occurred to her now, after she had gotten some sleep and could think again, that she could just as easily have remained in a Columbus motel under the same conditions. Columbus was more dangerous, though, because people knew her, could, if anyone asked, say, "Oh, yeah, I saw her a couple of days ago. She was in the supermarket on Such-and-such Street." A lot of people passed through the hospital, and a lot of them remembered her. Strangers were constantly speaking to her, telling her of their stay in the hospital, and she always smiled and nodded, but she seldom remembered anything about them.

  She didn't want to be in Columbus. She wanted to be in New Orleans, with its heavy, sticky heat and air of casual, cheerful wickedness. And so she was here, though she had no idea if Marc would be at the airport or what sort of welcome he would give her even if he was there. If he wasn't, she would take a cab to the city. He had a job, a busy one. Just because he had made time for her before didn't mean he could, or would, do so again.

  The plane landed with a slight bounce, and they taxied to the terminal. As soon as the plane lurched to a stop at the jetway, passengers ignored the instructions to remain seated until the captain turned off the seat-belt sign and crowded into the narrow aisle, taking down bags from the overhead bins, dragging them out from under seats. Karen remained seated; the rear of the plane was always the last to empty, and she was in the very last row. Except for stretching her legs, standing up would serve no purpose because she certainly wasn't going anywhere for a while.

  But eventually, the line began to snake forward, and the plane emptied in fits and starts. Karen crawled out of the cramped seat, wincing at her sore ribs, her sore knee, her sore hands. She ached all over. This morning, she and Piper had solemnly bandaged each other, then hugged good-bye and laughed and cried at the same time. Piper had argued at first against the entire preposterous idea that someone was trying to kill Karen, but the more she thought about it, the more worried she became, and finally she had agreed the safest thing to do was get out of Dodge.

  Piper had been right about something, too. With her hands bandaged, people rushed to handle her one suitcase for her.

  Though her wardrobe was limited to what the policewoman had packed, when Karen finally stepped off the plane into the heat and humidity of the jetway, she realized she was better dressed for New Orleans weather now than she had been before. Other than a couple of uniforms, her wardrobe currently consisted of two pairs of jeans, a lightweight flowered skirt that fell to mid-calf, three cotton tops, some socks and underwear, sneakers, and a pair of sandals. She wore the skirt and sandals and felt much cooler than she had before.

  Marc nabbed her as soon as she set foot in the terminal. That was the only word for it. A hard hand closed over her nape, dragging her to a halt, and he said with suppressed violence, "What the hell is going on?"

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  He was still angry, Karen thought. No, angry wasn't an adequate word; he was furious, his eyes glittering, his lips a thin grim line, pale around the eyes and nose. She was so glad to see him that she closed her eyes as a sigh of relief soughed out of her lungs. "Hi," she said, another inadequate word.

  Then she was in his arms. He eased her there, as if afraid of hurting her. She felt his heart hammering under her cheek, his breath soft on her hair, the hard bulge of his gun in the holster at his waist, and it felt so wonderful to be where she was that the cessation of solitude was almost painful. She had never felt this connection with anyone else, this lightness as her body touched his, this pure, delicious sense of homecoming.

  "You look like he