she said for the twentieth time. “This is a big city, a big state. Surely you have other safe houses.”
The older man shrugged. “All I know is that you need to be on the nine-fifteen flight to St. Louis. Maybe it won’t be as hot there.”
In late September, Miami was still stifling hot. Not that she’d been outside much lately. It would be wonderful if they stashed her someplace where she had access to a balcony or a porch.
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with,” she said.
* * *
CHASE MET DAWSON in the front lobby of police headquarters and they rode the elevator in silence. “How’s Mary?” Chase asked as the doors opened.
“She said her ankles have swelled to the size of cantaloupes and her back feels as if a small army of angry men with sharp knives have taken residence.”
“Damn. Want to stay at my place for a few days?”
Dawson shook his head. “I’d have to stay thirty-six days, and if I did that, I don’t think I’d have a happy home to return to once the little princess is born.”
Chase pulled open the heavy door that led them to the interior office. “I don’t like coming here,” he whispered.
Dawson shrugged. “Then, quit doing crazy things that get you noticed by the top brass.”
“I don’t do crazy things,” he denied.
“Five weeks ago, you took a bullet in your thigh and still managed to return fire. You pushed your recovery, got the doc to release you early and came back to work last week. A day later, you walked through a wall of fire. And it was all caught on a cell phone. The newspaper called you a hero and the video played on the evening news—both the six o’clock and the ten o’clock,” he said. “And you hadn’t even clocked in for the day,” he added, sounding exasperated.
It had been early and the two young men had been drag racing on their way to work. He’d just gotten the first guy out of his car when the second car had exploded, potentially trapping the young driver. “You wouldn’t have left that kid to die.”
Dawson smiled at the young woman behind the desk. “Detectives Roy and Hollister here to see Chief Bates.” When she picked up the phone, he turned to Chase. “I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said, his tone serious. “But I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to do what you did,” he added. “You had to have been concerned that your leg might not hold up.”
He’d considered the possibility. Then ignored it. Those kids were going to have a future. That was what mattered.
The chief only made them wait ten minutes. When they were ushered into his office, Chase was again reminded that Chief Bates was one tough dude. While he was close to sixty, he was six-five, with a barrel chest and a handshake that could bring a man to his knees.
He extended his arm to Dawson. “Detective Roy,” he said. “Good to see you.” He turned toward Chase. “Detective Hollister. How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
The chief nodded. “Saw you on the news the other day. Nice work.”
Behind the chief, Dawson made a big deal out of rolling his eyes. Chase ignored him.
“Sit, please,” the chief said, pointing to the leather chairs in front of his big cherry desk. “You know what our situation is?”
Chase nodded. “There was a second attempt on Lorraine Taylor’s life.”
“Yes. Malone has access to considerable resources. It’s possible that he managed to organize a hit on her before the Florida police got him picked up. It’s also possible that he did it from jail.”
The words lingered in the air. Good cops hated that there were dirty cops but it was a fact of life. Palms got greased and instructions often made it over the prison wall. Or maybe it had been a visitor who carried messages back and forth. The possibilities really were endless.
Chase leaned forward in his chair. “Could Malone have had an accomplice? Somebody who knew Lorraine Taylor. Knew her because it wasn’t an accident that she was the victim. Maybe she was cherry-picked and when things went badly for Malone and he was picked up, the accomplice slipped into action?”
“It’s possible. But Taylor didn’t see anybody else while she was with Malone or hear him refer to anyone.”
But Malone was smart—nobody was disputing that. He’d managed to kill three women and hide their bodies.
The chief steepled his big fingers together. “It’s even possible that we’ve got some crackpot who somehow managed to find out Taylor’s identity and he or she has decided to finish what Malone started.”
Chase nodded. “I guess the only thing we really know for sure is that we need to keep Lorraine Taylor alive to testify at Harry Malone’s trial.”
“Alive and unintimidated,” the chief corrected. “I’m worried that she’s not going to be a good witness if she’s frightened that her life is in danger. We need her confident. Relaxed,” he added, then had the wherewithal to look a little sheepish. “As much as one can be at a murder trial.”
“What can we do to help, sir?” Dawson asked.
The chief looked at his watch. “Lorraine Taylor’s plane should be touching down in forty-five minutes and nobody has given me an option that I’m happy with.”
Chase took a sideways glance at Dawson. There were a number of safe houses that they used in the city, even a few in West County. Those were the ones he knew about. The chief probably knew of others.
“Her location was compromised in Miami,” Chief Bates said. “I can’t have that happen here. She’s already not happy about coming to the same city where Malone is sitting in jail. I’m thinking of stashing her downstate, maybe Springfield.”
Chase could see the concern on Dawson’s face. He would not want to be hours away from his wife if the baby decided to come early. He waited to see if Dawson would say something. But he didn’t. Chase understood. Turning down an assignment that the chief personally handed you was career suicide.
Chase leaned forward in his chair. He was going to regret this. “My brothers and I own a house in Ravesville. It’s sitting empty right now. It’s a mile and a half outside of town. Only a couple neighbors on the same road. Brick...uh, my stepfather just died.”
The chief’s eyes lit up. “Did you grow up there?”
Chase nodded.
“When did you move away?”
He’d left the day Calvin had turned eighteen, when both of them were legal to be on their own. He’d been twenty-one. “Thirteen years ago, sir. I went back once, about eight years ago.”
The chief tapped his middle finger on the wood desk. He stared at it. Finally, he looked up. “I like it. We’ll have your file reflect that you’re on personal leave. If anybody asks,” he said, looking at Dawson, “Detective Hollister is dealing with family stuff. Nobody besides the two
