Undercover Protector

“Are you Irish?” he blurted. Nice. Really, so suave. It’s a wonder you ever got laid.

“No,” she answered and her attention drifted to the bedside table that showed that one finger swipe through the dust.

“Let’s go into the other room and discuss specifics,” he said and walked by her, close enough that he caught the soap-and-sunshine scent of her.

He heard her follow him into the hallway and then pause.

“What’s in here?” she asked and he turned just as she pushed open the door to his office. Inside, Bear, his dog, went berserk and Caleb reached out and slammed the door shut again.

“You don’t need to worry about that room,” he said. “I don’t want it cleaned.”

“But it looks—”

“It doesn’t get cleaned!” he said with more volume than was necessary with the reticent Margaret Warren. Her lips tightened and she nodded and Caleb felt like a fool.

He’d lost his touch, not just with pretty shy women who once fell to his bidding like ducks in a shooting gallery, but with other people, too. With everyone.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “I won’t clean that room.”

He nodded, relieved and a little surprised by her straightforward understanding. He could imagine that she might think he was a little nuts. Maybe he was. Most of the time, he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

SHE’D PLACED two of the three surveillance bugs. There was no way she was going to get into his office considering the way he’d flipped when she opened the door.

Obviously there was something in there he didn’t want people to see.

I need to get in that office.

“I think he likes you, Mags,” Gordon said in her ear. “Dude can’t stop looking at you…ouch… Man, stop throwing stuff at me.”

Gordon was right, Gomez was lonely. Really lonely if his awkward sideways glances were any gauge. She was not a woman men stared at. She was a woman men glanced at and forgot.

Apparently, not Gomez.

The back of her neck burned and her fingers tingled and she told herself it was the job. It certainly had nothing to do with that dynamic energy that surrounded him, that seemed to reach out to her with every glance.

That’s good, I can use that.

Things were going well. She seemed to have passed some sort of test when she didn’t react to Gomez’s injuries. She had handled the situation when he caught her bugging the kitchen phone. It had been close, but luckily there really had been pizza sauce on the receiver.

They seemed to get along, if his corny jokes were an indication. Except for his privacy issues about the office, which she planned on stepping all over, she guessed she had this job in the bag.

She followed him from the dark hallway back into the bright room with the view of the ocean. She didn’t pay much attention to what lay outside the window, instead planning to get her third and final bug planted under the table beside the overstuffed sofa.

“Your ad said mornings two days a week,” she said, breaking the silence in the room.

“Right. Eight to noon.” He limped over to the large armchair hidden underneath newspapers. He brushed them all to the floor then collapsed into the dark blue cushions with a groan. “I’ll be home most of that time, but I’m usually working in my office.”

“We need more time, Maggie,” Curtis said. “We’ll be here weeks if you keep to that schedule.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work, Mr.—”

“Gomez,” Gomez said, “but please call me Caleb.”

“Okay, Caleb.” She swallowed, his first name felt thick and awkward in her mouth. “It’s going to take me about a week of four-hour days just to get this place cleaned to a livable standard. And that doesn’t include the cooking.”

“Good point.” Caleb looked around and grimaced. “What do you propose?”

“Two weeks of eight-to-one and then we’ll see.”

Caleb smiled and Maggie glanced away from the twist of that wounded mouth and the humor that poured out of those eyes. “We’ll see. I like that. It’s been my motto for two and a half years.”

Maggie was startled by her desire to ask what he meant by that comment, but she quickly focused back on business. “Did you want to call my references?”

“Already have, they couldn’t say enough good things about you.”

Considering Curtis and his secretary had been her two references, she wasn’t surprised. Still, she smiled as though she was pleased.

One step closer, she thought. I am one step closer, Patrick.

“Great. So, is there some paperwork you want me to fill out?”

“Not so fast.” Gomez grinned again, the wry tightening of his face looked more like a grimace than an expression of pleasure. “Why don’t you clear a seat and tell me why you are so eager to work for slave wages for a disfigured cripple?”

Maggie inwardly winced. Though his tone was casual, joking even, it was very clear what this man thought of himself.

“I need the job,” she answered. More than you’ll ever know. “I have a son.”

“You’re married?”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Is it important?”

“No.” Gomez wearily rubbed the scars on his neck.

Does it hurt? she wondered.

“Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.” He looked out at the ocean, his face touched by the sunlight and Maggie had the strangest feeling that he was searching for composure.

“So, Margaret with one son,” he finally said, turning back to her. “What brings you to Summer-land?”

“Will is getting older and his influences were getting worse at school and in the neighborhood.”

“Where were you from?”

“Los Angeles.” The lies came fast, natural. “Long Beach.”

Gomez nodded. “Spent a little time there myself. Some neighborhoods there can eat a kid alive.”

She knew all of this, of course. Long Beach and Will, her fictitious son, were all part of her cover designed to elicit reactions from Gomez, to create a sense of common ground. She needed him to want to talk to her.

It was what being undercover was all about. Building trust and then destroying it.

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“Ten.”

“What—”

“You mentioned a pay increase if I agreed to cook,” she asked, interrupting his twenty questions. Best to keep some mystery about herself, keep the journalist engaged in her story. Spilling all of her made-up beans wouldn’t do that.

Gomez did not miss a beat at her change of subject.

“An extra $150 a week. If it’s edible.”

Maggie nodded, clueless as to whether that was fair or not. “Sounds fair.”

Gomez watched her, unabashed, and the air slowly filled with tension like a gas leak. She could feel his regard, like fingers reaching out to stroke her hair, her face. His eyes probed hers and for a moment, because she knew, at least in words, all of the things that had happened to him, those beautiful eyes shook her.

She knew people torn apart, absolutely devastated by things not half as bad as what this man had suffered and survived. Her mother for one. Destroyed by what had happened to her golden son.

“So, do I have the job?” she finally asked, acting as the composed Margaret Warren once more.

“Yes, Ms. Warren, I do believe you do.”

She, Curtis and Gordon all sighed in relief. “That’s good news,” she told Gomez.

“Well,” he said with a wry chuckle, “you haven’t seen the bathroom.”

IN THE END Margaret wanted to write down a list of cleaning supplies but didn’t have a pen so he had to go into the kitchen to grab one.

Giant suitcase of a purse and she doesn’t have a pen? What do they carry in those things?

When she drove away Caleb stood at his back door and watched her crummy little hatchback until it vanished down the hill.

There was going to be a woman in his house. A woman with a gorgeous mouth and unreadable eyes, touching his things. Making him dinner.

Caleb didn’t know how to feel.

Bear, still locked up in the office, bellowed to be let out. Caleb propped the cane on the wall and limped as fast as he could and flung open the door.

“Oh, Bear,” he groaned when he saw the mess his big dumb dog had made. “I’m gonna take you back to the pound.”

Bear sat in a nest of shredded paper, fragments of newspapers and magazine pages dotted his fur. One triangular strip hung from his lolling tongue.

Even after more than a week of seeing the beast every day, Caleb wasn’t used to his looks. Half of the dog’s right ear was missing from a fight that also took out his right eye. Because of a skin condition, he was hairless except for a couple of clumps of fur along his sides. Those clumps were coarse and wiry, the fur constantly falling out. He had a bad temper toward strangers, which was the main reason Caleb had bought the damn dog, but that didn’t make him any more endearing. Bear adored chewing paper, but left shoes alone, which was nice except Caleb often liked what was on the chewed-up paper more than his shoes.

Caleb reached out and peeled the piece of paper off the dog’s tongue.

Bear licked his hand and Caleb stepped over him to the sliding glass door that led from the office to the patio and Bear trotted out the door, knocking over the books and magazines Caleb kept piled on his office bookshelves.

Dumb dog. Caleb followed and pushed open the screen door so Bear could flop down on the deck in the sunshine. Caleb flopped down as well in the padded lounge that faced the water.

Bear sighed and scooted around so he sat within petting distance and Caleb flexed and stretched out his bad hand to stroke Bear’s single hairless ear.

“A woman’s coming, Bear.” He long ago stopped feeling stupid for talking to his dog. “You’ve got to behave yourself.”

Bear barked, once, a succinct reminder. “Me, too,” Caleb agreed, thinking of Margaret Warren’s pink mouth and those other soft womanish things that he longed to sample but were no longer within his limited reach. “I have to behave myself, too.”

“WHERE THE HELL DID HE GO?” Benny asked. He watched Hernando squirm and gasp. It made Benny feel better to know that the pain in his belly was also in the bellies of his men. Benny looked down to the floor, where Boyer lay in a slick of his own blood.

Well, he did not feel much of anything anymore.

Benny had to come all the way to New York from L.A. to deal with this Caleb Gomez problem when it should have been dealt with three days ago.

He wanted Hernando to feel the pain.

“Jefe, I don’t know.” Hernando shrugged and licked his upper lip, beaded with sweat despite the frigid temperature in the warehouse.

Good. Good. Be nervous.

Benny nodded at Ramon who held Hernando’s arms behind him, twisted high behind his back. Ramon lifted Hernando higher off his toes and Hernando screamed in pain.

“He left New York, jefe. That’s all I know. Nobody knows where he went. All those reporters that were hanging around his house don’t know either. Trust me.” Hernando was crying, snot trickling down over his lip and into his mouth like a river.

Disgusting. It was so damn hard to find men who would behave like men rather than scared little schoolgirls.

“Did you talk to the reporters? Did you ask them where they think Gomez went?”

“Of course…I…”

“Did you ask them like I am asking you right now?” Benny cocked his gun and Ramon lifted him again and the screams echoed through the empty warehouse.

“No,” he finally gasped. “No, I didn’t, jefe. Give me a chance and I will. I will find out. I swear.”

The little bitch was crying in earnest and Benny thought about shooting him just on principle. Instead he uncocked the gun and put it back in the waistband of his pants.

He could be benevolent.

“Do it,” he said. “You have ten hours.”

Ramon dropped him and Hernando landed in a heap on the cold cement, sobbing.

Five hours later the sound of Benny’s cell phone cut through the canned music being piped through the speakers behind his head.

“He’s on the West Coast,” Hernando said. “North of Los Angeles, no one is sure where. That’s the truth, jefe. I swear to God.”

Benny flipped his cell phone shut and put the biography of Mussolini on the floor for some minimum-wage bookstore employee to pick up. He kicked Ramon’s foot to wake him up. He’d been dozing in the chair in the empty non-fiction section of the bookstore since they’d arrived after dinner.

“Wha—?” Ramon sat up, blinking and huffing like a man coming up from under water. “What’s going on?”

“He’s on the West Coast.” Benny stood and picked up his leather jacket from the back of his chair. “North of L.A.”

“You want me to go find him?” Ramon stood, too, his giant six-foot, three-hundred-pound frame uncurling like black smoke against the bookshelves behind him.

“No,” Benny said. “You take care of Hernando. I know who to call to take care of Gomez.”

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE MANAGED to slide open the lock and get through the front door of her new temporary apartment without dropping her overnight bag, her dinner bag, her laptop bag, her purse or, most importantly, her jumbo root beer.

Once inside she put as much of her load as she could onto the floor and surveyed her new home.

Just once she wished for an assignment that required fancy digs. Some place furnished with real furniture that didn’t smell like cat pee. Some place that might actually have a view of something other than a Dumpster.

“Used to wish,” she muttered. She hoped this was her last job. It had to be. She had to get out of the Bureau while she still had something left of herself to get out with. And if Gomez had the stuff to bring down Delgado, she could solve her brother’s murder, clear his name and move on.

It was time—probably past time if her mindset today had been any indication. She wasn’t as focused as she usually was. Something about Gomez kept her off balance, a little too aware of the fact that she played a part.

She’d regroup tomorrow. Stay on task.

Tonight, however, I can enjoy my luxurious surroundings, she thought.

Her apartment, located in an old building off what appeared to be the only nonresidential street in Summerland, was small. Very, very small. She turned right and saw the blue tiled bathroom with the naked lightbulb hanging from the middle of ceiling. She turned left and saw the kitchen-dining room-living room area, complete with Formica kitchen table and chair. She hoped it wasn’t her bedroom, too.

She could have stayed in her own apartment, but she and Curtis had hopes that with proximity she might be able to run into Gomez around town—should he actually leave his house.

She needed to increase her possible points of contact in whatever way she could considering the time frame. One week. It was practically a joke.

She held on to her drink and the brown bag that contained her dinner in one hand and dug from her overnight bag one of the few things—besides her clothing, computer and gun—that came with her from the outside world.

The cruise brochure.

She took the single step required to move her from the hallway to the center of her kitchen. Her heart sank to see the mattress in the middle of the main room. The tiny space was indeed her bedroom, too.

She tried to look on the bright side but couldn’t find one.

Maggie hiked herself up onto the counter, dug out her burrito, and spread the cruise brochure with its gorgeous, shirtless, brown-skinned man out on the counter faceup.

“Hola, señor,” she cooed to the man who could be considered her dinner date most evenings.

At some point Maggie had stopped fighting the sad state of her life and embraced it. She was a workaholic who dreamed of taking a cruise but probably never would because she was too busy working. She also dreamed of having a sex life with a real man, instead of fantasies originating from a New Holiday Cruise brochure. But that was about as likely as Margaret Warren sprouting wings and flying around to dust Gomez’s house.

After Patrick’s murder was solved. Then. Then Maggie would actually take a vacation. Maybe she’d take a vacation and not come back. She’d settle down on some Mexican beach with a beautiful, shirtless man and a lifetime of umbrella drinks. She’d throw out her clothes and wear only bikinis. All day. Regardless of who she blinded with her Irish white skin.

Maggie bit into her bean and cheese burrito with gusto. It’d been ages since her last meal. That coffee at the briefing had been about it all day.

Man, the morning seems like years ago, she thought and took a slurp of her root beer. Odd how meeting Gomez today had messed up her perception of time. Anything before looking into those startling blue eyes set in that even more startling face seemed like a long time ago. She’d gathered from reading his file that he was a pretty dynamic guy, but meeting him was a whole different story.

Caleb Gomez was one of a kind.

Now, he was bait.

She cringed just thinking about it. Gomez didn’t deserve this treatment from the Bureau and she hated being the person to set him up. Not after what he’d already been through for his country. But she and her family were carrying the emotional scars as proof that sometimes life was not fair.

“Patrick.” She said his name out loud and listened to it echo around this empty place that his death had led her to.

Her voice bounced back from the window with its view of the Dumpster to the tiles in the bathroom, reaffirming all her reasons for being in this shabby apartment in this shabby town, ready to betray a good guy who clearly only wanted to be left alone.

Saying her brother’s name kept the driving edge of her pain and commitment sharp. She would not be swayed by Gomez, by fear, by anything.

Delgado would pay for killing her brother.

She only had to prove that Delgado had been behind it.

She took another bite of her burrito, licked the salsa off the corner of her mouth and forced herself to consider brighter subjects for a while.

“¿Cómo está usted?” she asked the guy on the brochure. “Usted es muy hermoso. Puede usted traerme una bebida con sabor a…” She couldn’t remember the words for a fruity umbrella drink. Her poor Spanish echoed around the empty apartment and she cringed.

“I am crazy,” she told the brochure and jumped off the counter to grab her laptop. A little conversation with the outside world was what she needed, even if it was in cyberspace.

She unzipped the case and opened the thin computer, locating the available phone jacks and outlets. She ate a little more while listening to the soft hum and whir of the booting computer.

She opened her e-mail program, thinking she could get a little work done but was immediately sidetracked by an e-mail from Liz Meisner with the word Emergency in the subject.

Maggie rolled her eyes. Of course. Her sister could be counted on for at least two emergencies during every case.

Luckily, Maggie had never been in such deep cover that some family contact wasn’t allowed. The provision was that her real life never threaten the integrity of the case.

This could be another one of Liz’s not-sourgent emergencies or it could be real. Dad’s health was bad, Dan, Liz’s husband, was working overtime, Mom was exhibiting manic behavior in her effort to counterbalance her husband. The truth was they were a family living in a state of semi-emergency.

Maggie grabbed her cell phone and dialed her sister.

“Liz, here,” her bright perky sister answered.

“Emergency?”

“Oh, my God! Mags! I’m so glad—”

“The Starbucks north of Zuma Beach on Highway 1 in exactly a half hour.”

“Uh…okay.”

Maggie hung up and picked up the remains of her burrito. The cheese was cold and her hunger had turned to a dull ache in her stomach.

“You don’t have any sisters, do you?” she asked shirtless man, and tossed the burrito in the garbage.

LIZ WAS TEN MINUTES LATE. Which, in Liz time, was practically early. She entered and scanned the palatial coffeehouse located just off the beach like a starlet looking for her public. Most of the men in the place looked back.

Liz attracted attention to the same extent that Maggie didn’t. Tall, with long legs, and brown hair cascading down her back. Big brown eyes that screamed “Help me” and suckered even her smarter-than-that older sister into offering assistance. Not even the giant rock on her left hand deterred the interested male glances in the coffee shop.

Maggie put up her hand and waved Liz over.

“Mags!” she cried, throwing her purse onto the chair. “Thank God—”

“Where’s the blood?” Maggie asked.

Liz blinked.

“This is an emergency and emergencies while I’m working require blood.”

Liz winced but then smiled—sorry, her smile said, but aren’t I charming and I am your younger sister and who else could help me out but you?

Maggie looked up at the painted ceiling and blew out a big breath. She hadn’t really expected anything different. “Go get me a latte. A big one,” she said and shrugged out of her coat to settle in for whatever tale of woe Liz had for her this time.

If she ever went in deep cover Liz would be beside herself.

“Dan’s cheating,” Liz said a few minutes later, setting down the large lattes and sliding into her seat.

“On you?” Maggie asked, jaw on the floor. Men didn’t cheat on women like Liz—they cheated on other women with women like Liz.

Liz nodded and Maggie suddenly saw the tension and strain on her sister’s face and felt the age-old big sister desire to make whatever was wrong better.

“Are you sure?” she asked, leaning forward and brushing Liz’s hand with her own.

Liz nodded. “He’s gone all the time. He’s getting these phone calls late at night and then he leaves. Just gets out of bed and goes.”

“He’s a cop, Liz—”

Liz shot her an acrid look under her eyelashes. “I’ve been married to him for six years, Mags. I know what the life is like and I’m telling you this is…different.”

Maggie sighed. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Patrick.”

Again, his name aloud straightened her spine and she saw the small muscles in Liz’s jaw flex. The whole family suffered from the same helpless rage that had settled in their muscles and stomachs. Their father already had atrophied so much that no one could even say Patrick’s name in front of him. It was as if their dad was trying to erase her older brother from the family.

Liz shook her head. “He was warned away from the case.”

“When did a warning ever stop Dan Meisner from doing something?” Maggie asked with a smile, trying to tease one from her sister. “If I remember correctly, Patrick tried to warn Dan away from you. That didn’t do much good.”

Finally, Liz smiled and took a sip of her latte. Her brown eyes no longer dull. “True.” Her smile was coy and Maggie sighed. Liz and Dan were a solid couple. Any woman would chafe at being married to a cop—the hours and the job stress weren’t easy. But Dan and Liz made it look easy. The Meisners were a dream couple.

“So.” Maggie finally took a sip of her own latte, the ulcers groaning in wretched protest. “Dan’s just doing what Dan does best, stirring stuff up and trying to solve his best friend’s murder.”

Liz didn’t look convinced, but at least the fine lines of tension were gone from her face and her hands weren’t white-knuckled around her cup. “Is that what you’re doing?” Liz asked, looking at Maggie sideways. “Trying to solve Patrick’s murder?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything.”

Liz shrugged, looking somehow smaller. “I wish I could do something, too. I feel helpless.”