Tall, Dark And Wanted. Morgan Hayes
course, it wasn’t her gut that was running on empty and was about to die along this deserted stretch of godforsaken, freezing road, Molly thought, cursing again.
She’d called Barb Newcombe’s secretary yesterday afternoon in Chicago, and managed to find out that the CEO had taken an extended New Year’s vacation in Canada and wasn’t expected back to work until the day after tomorrow. The chance of Mitch being at Newcombe’s cottage with her had seemed even more likely after that, and Molly had started packing.
She’d almost finished by early evening when Adam had shown up at the door of her apartment. He hadn’t waited for an invite, but pushed his way in, demanding to know what she was up to and why she hadn’t responded to any of his attempts to page her.
“Yeah, right, Molly,” he’d said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom as he’d watched her shove more clothes into her overnight bag. “You aren’t visiting your aunt in Cleveland. Unless, of course, you always pack your off-duty for family reunions.” He lifted one fleece sweater to reveal the compact Walther 380 tucked in its ankle holster. “Hell, you probably don’t even have an aunt in Cleveland, do you?”
Molly ignored the question, praying he wouldn’t search further and find her on-duty weapon in the bag as well.
“Adam, would you do me a favor?”
“Nope.”
“Adam, come on, it’s just—”
“No way.” He shook his head, and Molly followed him into the cramped living room, where he attempted to pace.
She’d always thought Adam Barclay was built like a linebacker for the Bears, and in her small apartment, he looked even broader as he tried to maneuver around the clutter.
“You’ve got a key to my place,” she continued, adopting a plea in her voice. “Just come in and feed Cat once a day? Please?”
“That ungrateful bag of—”
“Please?”
“Only if you tell me where you’re really headed.”
“I can’t do that, Adam.”
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”
The question shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, practically everyone in the Homicide Unit—especially her partner—knew of the deep-seated grudge she held against Sabatini. How could Adam not have guessed what she was up to?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stated.
“The architect. Mitch Drake. You figure he survived the bombing, that he’s alive and hiding out someplace. So you’re going to single-handedly bring him in. The unwilling witness.”
“And how do you arrive at that conclusion?”
“Come on, Molly, I’ve been your partner three years, and in all that time you’ve never taken a vacation. I think I can figure it out. So…what d’you think you’ll get for this stunt—bringing in the one witness that can finally put Sabatini behind bars? Assuming you can pull it off, that is. You aiming for another bronze star?”
The rancor in Adam’s voice had confused her. “Why are you so bothered at the thought of me taking a little vacation time to follow a personal hunch?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” His voice had sharpened. “Maybe because I don’t want to lose my partner?”
She’d thought she saw a glimmer of concern sweep across Adam’s face then.
“Come on, Molly.” He softened his tone, as though still hoping to convince her. “This is insane. Sabatini isn’t your crusade, and you’re not some one-woman crime squad, as much as you’ve been trying to act like it ever since Sutton’s murder. Even if this Drake guy is alive, it’s suicide to think you can bring him in on your own, against Sabatini’s men. And I’m tellin’ you, if Sabatini hasn’t already had the guy executed, you can bet he’s got every hired thug of his out there lookin’ for him. Leave it to Witness Protection or the Fugitive Squad or whoever it is they’ve got searching for Drake.”
“I’m just going to take a few days and see what I can come up with, Adam. That’s all.”
“You’re just going to take a few days and get yourself killed, is all. Just like Sutton, for God’s sake. Guess you learned more from your former partner than I gave you credit for, huh?”
“Look, Adam, I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I have to do this. I have to try. Mitch…he…if he is alive, he’s running scared. He’s not going to trust anyone now.”
“And what makes you think he’ll trust you?”
“Because…because he and I have a past,” she admitted before she could change her mind about sharing the personal tidbit.
Her gaze had involuntarily flitted to her fireplace. It was so brief, but Adam caught it. He looked to the framed photo of her and Mitch, barely out of high school, in one another’s arms. She didn’t know why she kept it there on her mantel, but anytime she tried to put the photo away she wasn’t able to.
“Adam, I have to at least try. If anyone is going to be able to find Mitch and convince him to testify…it’s me.”
But now, as Molly strained to see the next road sign through the mounting snow squalls in her headlights, she was beginning to doubt what she’d told Adam. And as she slowed to make the turn toward Bass Lake and felt the first sputter of the Jeep as it accelerated on what could only be fumes at this point, Molly silently prayed that her past with Mitch would have some power in convincing him to return to Chicago and do the right thing.
It wasn’t just to see Sergio Sabatini behind bars, Molly realized as she spotted the distant glimmer of lights beyond the thumping wipers. Mitch’s life depended on it.
BARB’S WORDS HAD PLAGUED Mitch all day. He’d shoveled snow, split some firewood, even changed the oil in the Blazer. And all the while he’d weighed the wisdom of doing as Barb suggested and going to the police.
Still, he’d not been able to see any reason for doing so. Returning to Chicago to testify against Sabatini would have no affect on his own life, anyway. It would do nothing to change the fact that Emily was dead and his career was over. The only reason left for testifying now was to ensure Sabatini didn’t kill any more innocent people. But how was it that he owed anyone anything?
Bitterness had consumed him several times throughout the day. It would clutch at his heart and start the small, familiar fits of anger he’d felt far too often over the past ten months. What did he owe anybody, after what he’d been through, after everything he’d lost?
By early evening, after spending an hour wandering through the house, reacquainting himself with his past design, he’d finally settled down by the fireplace. He’d picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and started sketching possible plans for the addition Barb had mentioned. What else did he have to do except bide his time? Wait for Sabatini’s men to find him…
The sketching, however, had done little to take his mind off his situation. In fact, it only served to remind him of the work and the life he no longer had back in Chicago.
Mitch lowered the pad and pencil at last. He checked his watch: almost 11:00 p.m. The living room lay in shadows, the only light coming from the fireplace and the lamp next to the wing chair he’d occupied for the past several hours. The classical CD on the stereo had finished long ago, and the entire house seemed to have been swallowed by the silence of the surrounding wilderness.
He might not have heard the neighbor’s German shepherd otherwise. But there was no mistaking the anxious bark from the next lot. Mitch set his sketches on the coffee table and moved across the dimly lit room. He approached the east window with caution and fingered open one of the shutters to peer into the darkness.
It was the thin beam of a flashlight through the thick, swirling snow that caught