Cameron took a step back, retreating slowly down the stairs. The man followed her.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
As he took the next step, he lifted his gloved hand and pointed.
You.
Seventeen
JACK LEFT THE Triumph in an open spot near the end of the block and walked over to the unmarked police car parked in front of Cameron’s house. He’d taken his time on the way over, soaking in the fifteen-minute drive along the lake. In about three weeks he’d have to put the motorcycle into storage for the winter and his cold-weather mode of transport, a Ford LTD Crown Victoria, while practical, didn’t pack quite the same punch.
As Jack made his way over, Harper, the senior cop on the day shift, unrolled the driver’s side window.
“She just got here a few minutes ago. She’s with McCann.”
Jack noted this information, not happy about the fact that Cameron wasn’t alone. He’d called her office and had been surprised to learn from her secretary that she’d gone home early. At the time that had seemed fortuitous, since he preferred to talk to her in person, anyway, and her house would be more private.
He thanked the cops and headed toward the front gate.
For the past few days, he’d been avoiding this conversation. Mainly because of how surprised he was by his actions on Saturday night. He was not an impulsive man. Impulsive men in his line of work quickly found themselves dead. Or worse. He personally had survived the worst of it at the hand of Martino and knew the only way he had lived to tell was because he’d kept his wits through the pain and waited out those two excruciatingly long days for the right moment to strike.
What had happened with Cameron at Manor House had left him feeling unsettled. Off his game. He didn’t often let his guard down around people. That made a man . . . vulnerable.
Somehow, she had gotten behind his defenses. And now, every instinct told him to stay as far away from her as possible, to harden himself against her even more than he had in the past. He would ride out the remainder of the Robards investigation, and then walk away without a second glance.
Except for one thing.
You saw what you wanted to see.
That slip-up of hers had been in the back of his mind, nagging him, ever since she’d first said it. Who knew what she meant by that? But if there was some other explanation for her being in Davis’s office that morning—the day he’d been transferred by the DOJ—he wanted to know about it.
He needed to know.
So this time, he wasn’t leaving until she talked. He would get the answers he wanted. Today.
Jack strode up the steps to her front door. He rang the doorbell and waited.
No response.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Jack looked back at the undercover car parked on the street behind him.
In the passenger seat, Officer Regan rolled down the window and shrugged. “Maybe they’re in back. McCann said something about having a drink while we were checking out the house. They’re probably sitting on the deck or something.”
Officer Harper stepped out of the car. “You want us to check it out with you?”
She probably was just sitting on the deck, having a drink.
But probably was not good enough.
Jack took the steps two at a time. “One of you guard the front and keep trying the doorbell. The other of you should go around the east side of the house.” There was a gate that blocked access to the back of the house from that side, but it was still worth checking.
Drawing his gun, Jack went the opposite direction and cut around the side of the house. All the windows appeared undisturbed, and as he carefully peeked in each one, he saw nothing. Nor did he hear anything.
He moved cautiously around the house and into the backyard. Seeing that Cameron and Collin weren’t there, he crept up the steps that led to the deck and pressed his back against the house. On his one side was the door, on the other a window. The door was nearly all glass except for a solid oak border. The window at least had curtains that would provide some cover. Being careful to remain as concealed as possible, he peeked through the window.
Nothing.
The kitchen and great room were empty.
She wouldn’t leave without the police escort.
Jack tightened his grip on his gun. His eyes searched the house as he tried to stay out of view.
Then he saw it—something that made his pulse race.
On the other side of the kitchen, a large decorative mirror hung on the wall opposite the stairwell. He could see Cameron in the mirror—she was standing on the stairs.
A man wearing a black mask stood behind her, holding a gun to her head.
The front doorbell rang and the masked man looked in that direction, clearly using the gun to keep Cameron quiet.
From the east side of the house came a sudden clanging sound, and Jack ducked out of the window. The sound had come from the gate, and he silently cursed whichever of the two cops had been careless enough to make so much noise. He peeked back into the window.
Cameron and the masked man were gone.
Knowing they had to have gone up the stairs, Jack ran for the fire escape that led to the upstairs balcony, being careful to move stealthily enough so as to not make a sound. He reached the second floor and headed to the French doors outside the master bedroom. He reached out with one hand and quietly checked the handle of the door. Locked. Staying out of sight as much as possible, he looked through the glass.
He watched as Cameron entered the bedroom, the gunman right behind her. The man gripped her neck with one hand, pushing her, and held the gun to her head with the other.