No Safe Place Read online

  “Just to be safe,” he said, “let’s circle around to the back of the building.”

  “Okay.”

  The one-way alley was wide enough for a single garbage truck to pass through and dimly lit. The restaurant had a dumpster out back. Something scuttled across the concrete, and Beth cringed.

  Holding an index finger to his lips, Corbin signaled for silence. The sirens grew closer. For the next few minutes, the police would be checking the building with the triggered security alarm. They’d have their flashlights drawn, gloved hands tented against the tinted glass for a better look inside. They’d see the door was locked and call in a false alarm. She figured they had about twenty more minutes before the cruisers abandoned the search.

  How well did the two men chasing them know the city? Hopefully, not well. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that a bar was the only place open this time of night. Thankfully, Alary’s didn’t believe in neon signs. A neighborhood joint by the looks of the building, the bar and grill didn’t stand out unless the patrons knew where to look.

  She held her breath, but no cars appeared at the end of the street.

  Think like a cop.

  A sliver of light showed where the kitchen door was propped open, venting heat from the stoves into the brisk autumn evening. Corbin smoothed his hair and uncurled his jacket from his arm, then draped the material over his shoulder to cover the blood.

  Beth remained frozen. Her hands wrapped around her body, her lips tight to control the trembling. She was fine. Nothing wrong here. No reason to fall apart. The second kidnapping attempt in so many hours. Just another day.

  Clearing his throat, Corbin said, “We’re looking a little battered. You might want to, um—” he gestured ineffectively “—the less attention we draw to ourselves the better.”

  “I don’t know what I look like.” She rammed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, stretching the material to mid-thigh. “What do I need?”

  As he hesitated, she took in his face in darting glances that ricocheted off the alley and the back door of the restaurant.

  He gently straightened the collar of her hoodie and smoothed the straps of her backpack. Using his awkward left hand, he stroked the blond hair from her forehead then tucked a stray lock behind the curve of her ear. She shivered in response, hoping he mistook her reaction for the chill in the air.

  She remained still and silent beneath his ministrations, her breathing slowing, but still irregular. Her eyes were watchful. One mistake. One flash of headlights falling on them, and they were finished.

  He cleared his throat again. “Just follow me and pretend everything is perfectly normal.”

  FIVE

  Corbin’s arm throbbed. The least of his worries. Beth was afraid the authorities couldn’t protect her. What if she was right?

  He’d been searching for the truth since the day someone had set Timothy Swan’s file on his desk, and he’d unleashed a sleeping giant. There was no telling what was going to happen next, or how long it was going to take to unravel this mess.

  Beth’s eyes remained watchful. Her alabaster skin glowed in the halo of the streetlights. There was no time for words of comfort. No time to tell her everything was going to be all right.

  She was gazing at him in question, her expression trusting.

  The realization hit him in the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  He’d been holding her at arm’s length, keeping his distance. Not Beth. She’d put her trust in him. She’d put her faith in him to keep her safe without even knowing if he was up to the task. He was flying alone, without backup.

  They were on their own until they had proof of the evidence. They could call police, but that unleased a jurisdictional nightmare. She had a false identity. She had no proof she’d sent an email that effectively exonerated her. Better to call in something anonymously. Except that left them vulnerable.

  There was another choice.

  Could he hand her over to the FBI and walk away? They didn’t trust her. Corbin did. Timothy Swan’s death still weighed heavy on his soul. They hadn’t taken the threat seriously enough.

  For better or worse, Beth trusted him to see this through.

  In the distance, sirens blared. Too far away. Not the cruisers checking the building alarm. Had someone finally alerted the police to the commotion at the train station? What would they discover?

  He chafed her upper arms. “Let’s go inside, sit down, and regroup.”

  “Okay.”

  The warmth from the kitchen hit them like a humid wall scented with stale frying grease. There were two cooks in the galley-style room, their backs to the center, their attention focused on the equipment.

  Corbin strode down the middle, Beth in tow.

  A robust cook in a greasy apron turned. “Hey!” His flailing spatula sent a splatter of oil arcing through the air. “You can’t be in here.”

  Corbin offered a friendly smile. “Sorry. Got turned around in the alley. We’ll get out of your way.”

  He led Beth through the swinging door into the back of the bar, then ushered them to a tall-backed booth. The air smelled of beer and stale French fries, and the tabletop was sticky. He reluctantly released his hold.

  She glanced down. “I’ll be right back. I need to wash my hands.”

  Her gaze skipped away. She needed to wash off the blood.

  His blood.

  “Okay.”

  As he slid into the seat, he surveyed their surroundings. Near closing time, most of the patrons had already gone home, leaving the bar sparsely occupied. The layout was shotgun style, and he chose his vantage point for an optimal view of both the front and back exits. They had enough cover to go unnoticed, but he’d still be able to see if the men chasing them entered the building. He concentrated on measuring his breathing, letting his heartbeat slow to a normal rhythm.

  Beth returned a short time later, her eyes drawn and red-rimmed. She was exhausted. She rarely stayed up past the evening news. He’d heard her admitting as much when a coworker asked her about a late-night talk show.

  “Are you all right?” She stared at her hands. “You need medical attention.”

  “The bullet only grazed me. It’s already stopped bleeding.”

  The pain was radiating down his shoulder, but he kept that tidbit of information to himself. She’d been through enough tonight. She needed to know that everything was going to be all right. She needed to know he had control of the situation.

  “We shouldn’t stay here,” her voice was low and urgent. “What if they find us?”

  “They’re not going to stick around with the police patrolling the area. We need to pass some time. Maybe ten minutes. Just until the police realize they have a false alarm.”

  He’d tossed her phone. The most likely source of the tracking. He should have taken Ruth’s phone call more seriously. He should have dumped the phone earlier.

  “How did they find us?” she asked. “I still don’t know how you discovered I was taking the train. Maybe they followed us the same way.”

  “I can safely say they didn’t use the same method.” He sagged back against the torn Naugahyde booth. “I saw your ticket when you tripped over the trash bin.”

  His confession earned a weak smile. “You said it was your keen powers of intellect and deduction.”

  “They must have traced your phone. That’s the only explanation.”

  Snatches of conversation whirled like a kaleidoscope through his head. Maybe this is all happening the way it’s supposed to. Maybe your girlfriend set you up.

  Despite the impostor’s attempt to sway him, Beth’s involvement didn’t fit. “Where’d you get the umbrella?”

  “From a stand by the guard station.” She heaved a ragged sigh. “I thought it might make a good weapon in a pinch.”

  “Clever.
”

  She’d saved his hide, yet he couldn’t trust her. Not completely. Not yet. There was too much at stake. Too bad life wasn’t like detective novels. There was never any sure way to tell if someone was lying or not.

  She glanced at his wrapped arm. “Didn’t save you from taking a bullet. We need to get you to a hospital. You’re risking an infection or something.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Let me see. I’ll be the judge.”

  Her voice was stronger, reminding him of everything he admired about her. She was bright, self-confident and tough. He’d let her issue the orders—for now. He knew what it was like to feel as though life was spinning out of control. He knew what it was like to crave a sense of control over something—anything—when the world was crumbling.

  Leaning in, she stretched over the table. He caught a hint of her floral scent, a welcome respite to the overpowering odor of stale, spilled beer. Her fingers explored the edges of his torn coat, their touch feather-light. Her normally sleek hair was slightly mussed. This close, he noted the strands were actually several different shades of blond that blended together to form the golden color, the roots slightly darker.

  A weak lightbulb cast shadows from a dusty, overhead lamp advertising a classic brand of beer with a bucolic campsite near a waterfall. There was something familiar about the light, and he concentrated on the scene, forcing his attention away from the graceful sweep of her neck.

  His dad had a clock advertising the same beer in the garage. The background scrolled by, an optical illusion, making the water appear to ripple. He and his brother had broken the clock face while playing four square in the garage when it was too cold to play outside. The accident had cost them a month of Saturday morning cartoons.

  The memory seemed both very near, and a lifetime away.

  His phone rang, and Beth startled upright. Their faces were inches apart, her arms braced on the tabletop. His attention dropped to her lips. Butterflies took flight in his stomach. The phone rang again, and she sat back in her seat. Oddly breathless, he didn’t trust his voice to reply until the phone had rung three times.

  His arm throbbed.

  Concentrating on the pain, he tightened the makeshift bandage before answering with a curt, “Yeah.”

  “Your accountant is blowing up the wires,” his team leader, Baker, stated without preamble.

  “How’d they find out about her?” Corbin asked.

  His relationship with his superior had been rocky in the beginning. Corbin’s transition from working in the field to working in an office had been about as smooth as a dirt road in Kabul. Life and death had turned into paperwork and bureaucratic pandering. They ought to treat us like junkies—adrenaline junkies. He’d been warned about what to expect by others. They’d gone over everything in his debriefing. Words on paper were weak in comparison to reality. Returning to civilian life had been a shock.

  In an odd twist, Timothy Swann’s death had changed the dynamic for the better. They’d put new protocols in place. New levels of trust were established. Over the past two years, Baker had given him more field assignments. The change of pace and scenery had alleviated his restless energy. Everyone got along just fine now.

  “This isn’t about the money laundering.” Baker paused. “The chief financial officer at Quetech Industries, Sam Cross, was shot at point-blank range sometime between noon and four yesterday The official narrative is that he stopped home for lunch and walked in on a burglary. The wife found him when she got off work.”

  Corbin pictured Baker restlessly pacing his living room. He had the high, prominent forehead and bulging nose of a gumshoe from a forties era black-and-white movie, along with the rumpled appearance to match. In another life, he might have been wasted, but despite his unlikely appearance, he was a genius at tracing thousands of tangled cyber threads.

  “You’re not buying the burglary story?” Corbin asked.

  “Nothing was taken. The place was tossed, but the wife says nothing is missing. The alarm didn’t go off, and the wife claims Cross never forgot to set it. Doesn’t sound like the work of a suburban housebreaker.”

  “What about the rest?”

  Beth’s gaze was sharp and watchful. He didn’t want to frighten her until he knew exactly what was happening.

  “The police would like to question Beth about his death and her involvement in an embezzlement scheme. The victim, Cross, conveniently left some notes on his desk to that effect.”

  “Notes on the work desk.” Corbin guffawed. “Imagine that.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Corbin glanced at Beth’s ashen face, and a knot formed in his stomach. “What now?”

  “I guess that depends on if she had anything to do with his murder.”

  “Not unless she has a doppelganger. I’ve been with her all night. I don’t see her taking down Cross alone.”

  Beth was looking edgy. She knew they were talking about her. He wasn’t exactly speaking in code. Corbin kept his expression neutral, relaxed. No need to worry. Everything was going to be all right. Just making a plan of attack for the next few hours.

  Baker grunted. “The police are smart enough to know that, too. They just want to scare her. Apply a little leverage and see if she blabs about the embezzlement.”

  “Nice.”

  He’d used the tactic before, but it didn’t sit well this time around.

  “Either way, stay off the radar,” Baker said. “They’re shaking the bushes, seeing what darts out of the shadows. If she’s got the evidence like you say, this is the bad guys trying to smoke her out. Don’t let them.” The tapping of keys sounded in the background. “It’s too dangerous. The FBI is still shrugging off jurisdiction. Mark my words, if she comes through with the accounting trace, they’ll be knocking down our door. Always like to let everyone else do the legwork and then swoop in with the arrests.”

  “There’s more.” Corbin chose his next words carefully. “We had a welcoming committee at the station. The same guys from Chicago.”

  “They got wings?”

  Corbin considered the time line. “Takes hours to drive from Minneapolis if you’re motivated. Took us a little longer by train. I think they killed Cross, then came for Beth.”

  “Busy day for those two,” Baker grumbled. “You sure they don’t have wings?”

  Baker might question the time line, but it wasn’t impossible. Until Corbin learned otherwise, the window was large enough for a murder and a road trip.

  Either the chief financial officer was involved in the scheme, or he’d discovered the money laundering. “Whether or not they had anything to do with Cross, they were here tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if the coroner has pinned down a time of death.” Another lengthy pause was accompanied by the sound of papers shuffling. “I’m willing to believe your accountant has something of value considering the past twenty-four hours. You think you’re still being tailed?”

  “I doubt it. I dumped the electronics.”

  “Good. I’ll buy you some time on our end. If you turn her over to the Feds, it’s out of my hands. But it’s your call. You do what you think is best.”

  They’d arrest her for the possession of false identification, but she’d be in custody. There was no greater protection. “Is it safer?”

  “The FBI office said something about a wiretap and bait.”

  Not safer. “Let’s keep this between you and me for the next few days.”

  “Agreed. Where are you now?”

  “Minneapolis. The St. Paul area.” Corbin weighed his options. “We’ll turn it around.”

  “Chicago is too hot. Can you make it back to headquarters?”

  “Public transportation is going to be risky. I don’t want anything with our name on it.”

  Which ruled out most modes of travel.

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sp; “Get some wheels,” Baker said. “Should be something cheap for sale in that town.”

  “How’s the department going to feel about the expense report?”

  “This morning I authorized two last-minute plane tickets to Brussels. Cost me six thousand dollars. Try and do better than that.”

  “Will do,” Corbin said.

  “You sure you don’t need backup? I can put pressure on the Feds.”

  Considering their recent encounter, the fewer people who knew about their whereabouts, the better. Corbin also didn’t like the words “wiretap” and “bait.”

  He’d made a tactical error by not ditching her phone earlier. He’d been holding out, waiting to see if someone made contact. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  The less Beth was exposed, the better. “Too risky.”

  “Don’t rule out the accountant. There’s always the possibility she framed Cross to save her own hide. Watch your back with Beth.”

  The emphasis hit its mark.

  Leave it to Baker to catch his slip. “Understood. Check the security footage from the train station in St. Paul. There’s plenty of video of at least one of the men. Might turn up something.”

  “Will do,” Baker said. “Don’t get dead on me.”

  “Don’t plan on it. This phone number won’t be viable after today.”

  “Understood. Keep in contact.”

  Corbin hung up the phone and pressed his hand against the wound on his arm. The bleeding had stopped, but it wouldn’t take much to start it up again. He was holding his arm gingerly, trying to minimize his movements. He wasn’t risking medical attention. Hospitals were required by law to notify law enforcement of bullet wounds.

  There was another advantage. No medical reports to file, either. Baker might have responded differently had he known of Corbin’s injury.

  “Were you talking about Sam?” Beth reached across the table and touched his wrist. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Despite Baker’s conjecture, he doubted Beth had been involved in Sam Cross’s death. The men from the parking garage were the most likely suspects. If Beth had uncovered the money laundering, there was no reason to believe Sam hadn’t done the same. Or there was the possibility Sam had been involved, and his services were no longer required.