The Pediatrician's Personal Protector Read online

  “Extorting? You mean like blackmail?”

  “No, like trying to get money for nothing. So go on. Get out of the car.” Christy’s heart was pounding. She was treading on dangerous ground. She had no idea if Glo had a weapon. In fact, she wasn’t sure that she could hold her own in a fight, weapon or no. Her wrist was still impaired and she wasn’t desperate. Glo was. She held her breath and waited to see if her bluff had worked.

  Glo studied her face for a long time. She seemed to be having an internal argument with herself. Within a few moments, her eyes filled with tears and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “This is probably going to get me killed, or put in prison,” Glo finally said in a choked voice. “But it’s tearing me apart. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Christy waited, forcing herself to breathe normally.

  “Jazzy—” Glo stopped and swallowed. “Jazzy and Buddy, they got a deal working—with some cops. They rat on people—you know—sometimes it’s druggies, sometimes it’s about a killing or something. In return the cops give them drugs.”

  Christy’s heart leaped with excitement. “Drugs? From a policeman?” she said, not even having to feign shock. It didn’t matter that she already knew there were drugs from police evidence on the streets. It still was a stunning revelation to hear it confirmed.

  “I don’t know how it works, but I’ve seen some of the drugs. They’re marked—you know—like stuff the cops already took in a raid or something.”

  “Who are the cops, Glo?”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. You don’t understand. I don’t know who they are. I don’t!”

  Was Glo protesting too much? Or was she just afraid that without the police officers’ names Christy wouldn’t give her the money?

  “I think you do,” Christy said, trying to keep her voice strong and steady.

  “No, really.” Glo shook her head vehemently. “All I did was see some of the stuff. Jazzy had some and—and so did Autumn.”

  That surprised Christy. “Autumn? Glo, please tell me you’re not talking about five years ago.”

  “No! I mean—you know—the stuff Autumn had, yeah. But here’s the deal. She told me her boyfriend had given it to her. Said it came from the police station.”

  “But you’ve seen some since, right?”

  Glo reached for her cigarettes then checked herself. “Yeah. I told you. But don’t ask me who the cops are. All I know is Jazzy and Buddy got a deal going with ’em.”

  Ahead, Christy saw the shopping center. She turned into the parking lot and surveyed the storefronts. Her eye was caught by a familiar scarecrow-thin figure lurking in a dark alley between stores. “Was there anyone with you?”

  “What?”

  “Is that Jazzy? In that alley?” Christy pointed.

  Glo looked and gasped. “Oh, no. He can’t know I’m talking to you.”

  Christy realized Jazzy was talking to someone who stood farther back in the shadows. “Who’s that with him?” she asked.

  Glo craned her neck. “Oh, no—” she breathed. “It’s—his cop friend.”

  Christy squinted, but she couldn’t make out the cop’s features. The alley was too dark. “I thought you didn’t know the cop.”

  “I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him a few times. He’s a big guy. Usually wears a suit.”

  A suit. That meant he was a detective. Was it Autumn’s boyfriend? She wanted to get closer, get a better look. She eased the car forward.

  “What are you doing?” Glo exclaimed. “Don’t go any closer. If they see me in the car with you, I’m dead!”

  Christy pulled into a parking place, out in the open. She didn’t cut the engine, just sat with her foot on the brake. “Glo, I need to know who the policeman is. I need you to find out.”

  Glo recoiled and her pale face grew whiter. “I can’t do that. I don’t ask Jazzy nothing. I keep quiet and he gives me—” She ducked her head. “He gives me drugs. He’d throw me out if I started asking questions.”

  “Glo, I have to know something about the police officer. Anything. It’s very, very important.”

  “I told you, I—”

  “Listen to me, Glo. He may have killed Autumn. Your friend. My sister. Now I know she told you something about him. Anything, no matter how small.” Christy felt tears well in her eyes. She put her hand on Glo’s thin arm. “Please.”

  Glo pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut again. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  “I know. Listen, I promise you, when all this is over, I’ll help you. If you’d like to try to get clean, I’ll help you. I’d have done it for Autumn, but I never got the chance. Since I couldn’t help her, I’d like to help you. Would you want to do that?”

  Glo looked up at her, eyes shining with tears. “I tried once, but it was too hard. I couldn’t afford to live on my own, and Jazzy just kept on using.”

  “I’ll help you get into a program. Please, Glo?”

  Glo took a deep shaky breath. “I think Autumn’s boyfriend was Jazzy’s cop. That guy we just saw. She told me he was a big shot—you know, a detective.”

  Christy’s heart leaped. She was right. “A detective? Here in St. Tammany Parish? Or down in New Orleans?”

  Glo shrugged. “I think here, but I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. She was—you know, proud that he trusted her to keep his secret. She called him some nickname, but I can’t remember what it was.”

  A detective.

  “Thank you. That helps.” Christy reached into her pocket and pulled out the twenties. “Here. If you think of anything else—his nickname—anything, call me. And don’t forget about my offer.”

  Glo stuffed the money into the pocket of her ragged jeans, then craned her neck to look back toward the narrow alley where her brother had been standing.

  Christy followed her gaze. The alley was empty. Jazzy and his cop friend were gone. “Looks like they’re gone now.”

  “I—don’t want to get out here. Can you take me back to the house?”

  Christy reluctantly agreed.

  Within fifteen minutes, they were at Glo’s house. Christy pulled up in front of the door, and Glo immediately moved to get out.

  “Don’t forget, Glo. When this is all over, I’ll get you into rehab. Okay?”

  Glo sent Christy a searching look. “Sure,” she said, an ironic tone in her voice. “If we’re both still alive.”

  Reilly breathed a little easier as the thin, drug-ravaged young woman climbed out of Christy’s rental car in front of a ramshackle house on Salvation Road.

  “Damn it, Christy,” he muttered. “The worst street in the worst part of Chef Voleur.”

  Still, within just a few moments, she’d be out of there and safe.

  The past hour had felt like the longest sixty minutes of his life. But Christy had made it so far without getting herself hurt. Which to Reilly’s mind was a miracle.

  He’d followed her to the rental car place, then to the hospital. While she was visiting her father, he’d gotten Dawson’s state-of-the-art GPS tracker positioned under her rental car.

  Sure enough, when Christy left the hospital, she didn’t turn toward his condo. She headed straight for the roughest section of Chef Voleur, where abandoned buildings had been turned into crack houses and whorehouses. When he realized where she was going, he’d very nearly called a police cruiser to stop her.

  Instead, when she’d turned into the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall, he’d crept as close as he dared, and left his car in gear.

  It had been hell to watch her drive up to one of the hookers loitering in the shadows and talk to her. Hell to do nothing when the girl got into her car. Hell to watch them drive off. If the girl had a weapon and decided to use it, Christy wouldn’t have a chance. He’d never be able to get to her in time.

  Now he rubbed the day’s growth of beard on his cheeks and jaw and wished he’d done what he’d been threatening to do from the beginning—lock Christy up as
a material witness and force her to talk.

  Material witness to what? He scoffed. He wasn’t on an official case, and he had no proof that she was holding anything the police could use. So here he was, working off the clock, with little more authority than a private detective.

  With her hand on the door handle, the girl ducked her head back into the car’s interior to say something to Christy. Reilly studied her. Who was she? How had Christy found her? And what was her connection to Autumn?

  He knew there was one. The only reason Christy would come down to this part of town was to get information about her sister.

  Just about the time the girl straightened and went to close the car door, the door to the house behind her opened and a thin, tattooed clone of Tommy Lee came out, gesturing wildly and yelling at her. Reilly couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Behind him, silhouetted in the dark doorway, Reilly saw another figure. One that looked familiar.

  “What the hell?” he whispered as he studied the broad, high forehead and arrogant stance. He squinted, having trouble believing his eyes.

  Was that really Dagewood, the obnoxious detective who worked with Ryker? The guy cocked his head, glancing at the vehicles parked on the street and giving Reilly a clearer look at his face. There was no mistaking those broad features. It definitely was Dagewood.

  The tattooed guy must be Dagewood’s CI.

  Reilly hunched down in his seat, hoping the detective couldn’t see him, and grabbed his handgun from the glove compartment. He debated whether to leave his engine running or kill it.

  The Tommy Lee clone grabbed the girl by the arm and jerked her away from Christy’s open passenger door. He snatched what looked like folded money out of her hand, then shoved her roughly to the ground.

  Reilly ejected and checked the gun’s magazine, then reinserted it.

  This situation could get ugly—fast.

  Get out of here, Christy.

  CHRISTY WATCHED IN HORROR as Jazzy grabbed the twenties out of Glo’s hand and roughly shoved her to the ground. She jumped out of the car and yelled across the roof. “Hey! Jazzy! Stop that. Glo! Get back in the car.”

  Glo jumped up, glanced toward Christy, then turned and swung her fist at Jazzy. “Gimme my money!” she shouted.

  Jazzy stopped Glo’s swing by grabbing her wrist. He twisted it and pushed her down again. She hit the ground, rolled and scrambled up.

  “Glo! Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Christy called, but Glo ran toward the house, still screaming at Jazzy.

  Beyond Glo, Christy saw a big man step out from the darkened doorway as Glo shot past him and into the house. He was in dress pants and a long-sleeved shirt, a huge contrast to Jazzy’s threadbare T-shirt and tattered jeans.

  The man’s gaze met hers, hostility and fury in his eyes. Then he turned to Jazzy. “Get her!” he shouted.

  She tried to jump back into the car and close the door, but Jazzy was surprisingly fast, belying his malnourished, over-medicated appearance.

  He was around the front of the car before she got her foot inside. Grabbing her hair, he dragged her out and wrapped his bony arms around her in a bear hug. He was surprisingly strong for such a skinny guy.

  Christy struggled. She tried to kick, bite, scratch—anything to make Jazzy let go of her. She sucked in air to scream, almost gagging at the sour stench of cigarettes, beer and body odor, but Jazzy’s arms were too tight around her chest. All she could manage was a weak squeal.

  Just as Jazzy dragged her over the concrete stoop, she heard a shout.

  “Stop! Police! Let her go.”

  She knew that voice! Reilly! She twisted, looking for him but Jazzy jerked her back around.

  Christy struggled with all her might. If she let Jazzy get her inside, there was no telling what would happen to her. She screamed again. It was barely louder than her first try.

  “Let. Her. Go!” Reilly yelled.

  Jazzy let loose a string of inventive curse words. He took his left arm from its death grip around her and grabbed a handful of her hair again. Furious, impotent tears sprang to her eyes and she reached up, hoping to pry loose his grip.

  “Stop! Dagewood, stop him!” Reilly yelled.

  Suddenly, a gun appeared in the big man’s hand. He raised it, aiming, not at Jazzy, but in the direction of Reilly’s voice.

  “No!” she cried. “Reilly!”

  The man took aim and fired a shot in Reilly’s direction.

  “No!” Christy screamed again, just as Jazzy shoved her through the open doorway. She stumbled and fell against a table. Fireworks exploded in her head, then everything went black.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reilly cringed without breaking stride as the slug whizzed past his head.

  Son of a bitch! Dagewood was shooting at him. He must not recognize him.

  Reilly had broken into a run as soon as Tommy Lee Clone had started toward Christy, but he’d still been fifty feet away when the guy shoved her forcefully through the doorway.

  “Dagewood! It’s Reilly Delancey!” he shouted.

  To Reilly’s shock, Dagewood took slow, careful aim and fired another round at him. Then he calmly stepped backward, through the doorway, and slammed the door.

  In a few strides Reilly slammed into the door at full speed. It didn’t break. His momentum bounced him backward and he nearly lost his footing. His chest heaved painfully as his lungs struggled for oxygen.

  He aimed his weapon at the door’s lock. But he couldn’t shoot. Not blindly like that. Christy was in there.

  From the other side of the door, a report split the air and a bullet plowed through the wood of the door. It hit the ground a few feet behind Reilly.

  He had no choice but to retreat behind Christy’s rental car. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, cursing. He should have called for backup when he first saw what was going on.

  But he hadn’t realized that Dagewood was the enemy. Up until the instant Dagewood had aimed his gun at him, Reilly had still expected the detective to stop Tommy Lee.

  He speed-dialed the SWAT commander, absently noticing doors easing open up and down the street, and curtains fluttering at darkened windows. Stay in your houses, he silently begged the onlookers as Ace came on the line.

  “Commander Acer. Delancey here. I’ve got a situation—” Reilly glanced at a bent street sign. “I’m at the corner of Salvation and Fortune. Need backup. ASAP.”

  “What’s the situation?” Ace asked. Typically, he wasted no time on useless questions.

  “I’m outside a house where one female, possibly two, are being held hostage by a white male in his mid-to late-twenties and—a police detective named Dagewood.”

  Uncharacteristically, there was silence on the other end of the phone. “Repeat?” Ace barked.

  “Detective Dagewood,” Reilly stated clearly. “Don’t know his first name. He fired at me before going into the house with the white male and the hostages.”

  “Delancey, are you sure about this?” Reilly couldn’t blame Ace for the question. He’d seen Dagewood aim at him, felt and heard the whoosh of air as Dagewood’s bullet barely missed him and he still had trouble believing it. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  “Do not try to enter the house, Delancey. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sending team now. 10-4.”

  Damn Ace for issuing that order. Reilly wanted another chance at the door. This time he’d use his foot, putting all his weight behind the kick rather than ramming it with his shoulder. But Ace had given him an order, and he was bound to honor it. He prayed the team would get there soon.

  “Dagewood!” he yelled at the door. “What’s going on?”

  No answer except another bullet fired through the door.

  “Dagewood!”

  He heard scuffling from inside. He hoped to hell they weren’t escaping through the back door. He couldn’t risk leaving his position to check.

  Come on, Ace.

&
nbsp; Three doors down, an elderly man stepped out into his yard and shaded his eyes with one hand. Reilly gestured for him to go back inside.

  The man yelled something that Reilly didn’t catch, then hurried back toward his door.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Reilly went to pocket his phone, then paused. Ryker would have Dagewood’s cell number. He called him. “I need Detective Dagewood’s cell,” he said.

  “Reilly? What—? What’s going on?”

  “Dagewood’s holding Christy hostage in a drug house.”

  “He’s—? I don’t— Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryker muttered a curse. “Hang on. Let me get my cell.”

  Reilly heard him moving about.

  “Okay, here it is.”

  Reilly punched the numbers into his phone after Ryker read them. Then his brother asked, “Where are you, kid?”

  “Can’t talk. SWAT’s on the way.”

  “Reilly—”

  Reilly cut the connection and called Dagewood. The phone rang so long he decided that the detective didn’t have it with him or wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he heard a click. He waited, but Dagewood didn’t speak.

  “Dagewood, this is Reilly Delancey.”

  Still nothing.

  “We need to talk,” he said in his best hostage-negotiator tone. “Send Christy and the other woman out, and then you and I can discuss this.”

  “Go to hell,” Dagewood said and hung up.

  Reilly called back.

  Dagewood didn’t answer.

  Reilly kept trying though. Three times. He let the phone ring until voice mail picked up, then hung up and called again.

  Then he tried Christy’s number. He heard it ring—from inside the rental car. He opened the driver’s side door. There on the floorboard, was Christy’s purse.

  He picked it up and dumped it onto the seat. He saw her cell phone—and a second phone. That must be the one he’d heard ring in her room. The one she’d lied about, telling him she’d changed her ring tone.

  He picked it up and paged through the contacts. Triple A, Dr. Adams, D.B., Caesar’s Pizza, Christy, Dad, Frankie, Glo, Jazzy, Laurie, Super D.

  It was Autumn’s phone! It had to be. Laurie had to be Laurie Kestler, Autumn’s high school friend that Christy had mentioned.