blinding as a strobe light.
The mailbox was full, the usual crap. He thumbed through the stack as he walked back to the house. Bill. Bill. Credit card solicitation, two of them, one for him and one for Taylor. Catalogs from stores they’d never shopped. Magazines. He sighed. Just a bunch of junk. He shuffled the edges back together as he returned to the house.
He almost missed it.
If he hadn’t tripped on the step and dropped the stack, he wouldn’t have seen it until it was too late. It spilled out onto the brick patio, buried between the magazines. A red envelope, with the name Taylor hand-printed on the front. It wasn’t glued closed, the flap was just tucked into the bottom of the envelope. He used his pen to feed it open. There was a Valentine’s Day card inside.
He opened it, ignoring the schmaltzy words in favor of reading the note inside. It said:
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Colleen Keck is Dead
And So Are You.
Inside the card was a thin, clear plastic case with what looked like a CD inside.
He dropped everything on the steps and rushed inside the house, slammed the door behind himself, took the stairs two at a time.
Their bedroom was dark, quiet, the only noise Taylor’s soft breathing.
She was fine.
He wasn’t. He was thoroughly rattled. He watched her sleep for a few minutes, then quietly went through the entire house, clearing closets and bathrooms. No one there. No traps, no tricks. The son of a bitch was playing with them again.
He retreated to the downstairs, did the same sweep, then went back out to grab the mail. It was scattered on the front steps where he’d dropped it. He picked up the card from the concrete, ignoring the words this time, looking at the jewel case.
Using the American Express envelope balanced against a Clipper Magazine, he flipped the case over. There was writing on the CD itself, block letters in black marker. Numbers. Before he could decipher them, he felt his heart rate rise, the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Someone was behind him.
Jesus.
He went very still.
So this was it. Even on high alert he’d been caught unawares, standing outside his own home. The front door was unlocked, the alarm momentarily disabled. Perfect timing. How could he have been so stupid, to let his guard down when Taylor was at her most vulnerable?
Nothing. No shots, no sounds.
He couldn’t help himself, he looked over his shoulder.
There were two men standing on either side of him. Big boys, fit, heavy through the torsos, wearing sunglasses and holsters. Neither one moved, nor went for their weapons.
He was still breathing.
Baldwin took his time standing up. He gathered the stack of mail, then smoothed his pants down. A lapse in his mental judgment, going to the mailbox unarmed, unseeing, rushing into the house, leaving the door unlocked. Caught up in his own mind, so focused that he kept forgetting what was at stake.
The men didn’t move.
“Gentlemen,” he said finally. “What can I do for you?”
“Is Miss Taylor okay, sir?”
Sir. Miss Taylor. Deferential. His breath came back, he had to force himself not to gust out a huge, relieved sigh. They were on the job. Taylor’s guards.
“She’s asleep. Who are you?”
“I’m Wells. That’s Rogers. Miss Taylor hired us. Personal protection. She missed her call in.”
He wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to take any more chances. He should have done this back in North Carolina before things went to shit.
“ID. Now.”
They pulled out credentials, pictures that matched their faces, the P overlaid with a dollar sign, Price’s insignia, stamped plainly on their papers. Everything looked legit.
The bigger of the two shifted slightly, a subtle movement. Baldwin saw that his hand was now resting on the butt of his gun.
“Sir, I have to ask again. Where is Miss Taylor?”
“She’s fine. We’re exposed. Come inside,” Baldwin said.
The men followed him without hesitation, he wondered exactly how forceful his voice must have sounded. They didn’t work for him; they worked for her. Maybe she’d told them to follow instructions from Baldwin, too? No, that didn’t sound like Taylor. Damn woman, prancing off on her own to arrange her security. Like the FBI wasn’t enough. Like he wasn’t enough.
He composed himself as the two men crowded into the kitchen. They were wide, not as tall as Baldwin but much thicker through the chest and forearms. Strong. Capable.
“Tea?” he asked, motioning toward the kettle.
They both shook their heads. Baldwin assumed tea wasn’t exactly the right drink for these two. Battery acid on the rocks, perhaps.
“You’ll forgive us, sir, but we need to lay eyes on her, make sure she’s okay firsthand. Orders from Mr. Price,” Wells said.
“I understand. She’s fine, she just crashed. I wanted her to get some sleep. It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Tell me about it. But-”
“I’m not waking her up so you can satisfy Price’s curiosity, you understand?” Baldwin tried to keep his tone pleasant, but he’d had just about enough. Wells recognized the signs of impending anger, weighed his choices, then nodded briefly.
“Give me a second,” he said, then flipped open a cell phone. Baldwin heard Price’s voice on the other end of the phone. Wells relayed a status update, said “uh-huh” a couple of times then handed the phone to Baldwin.
“He wants to speak to you.”
Baldwin took the phone.
“Hello, Mitchell.”
“Well, you don’t sound as angry as I expected. She told me you called off your dogs. I think she’s just scared, Baldwin, and hates to admit it to you.”
“You could have given me a heads-up when she called.”
“And risk the wrath of Khan? Hell no. That’s her business. Her cash.”
“You’re right, Mitchell. It’s her choice who to trust right now. I won’t keep you, I just wanted to confirm that these boys were yours.”
“They are. Keep safe, Baldwin. Keep her safe for me.”
Baldwin clicked the phone off and handed it to Wells, who stowed it in jacket pocket.
“We’ll just wait here until she wakes up, sir.”
“Fine. Have a seat. She’s been out for about an hour, I’m going to wake her up at seven. Try not to break anything while you wait.”
They didn’t sit, but Wells leaned against the kitchen counter, meaty arms in a pyramid across his chest. His partner, Rogers, was the quieter of the two. He simply stared at the floor as if he found the wood grain the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, looking up occasionally as if asking permission to continue imitating a statue.
Baldwin shrugged and left them to their devices. Damn if he didn’t feel good having them around. This was all spinning out of control, the grains of sand shifting through the hourglass faster and faster. He could feel it in the very air that surrounded them, a sense of expectation, of doom. They were hurtling toward the resolution of the case whether they wanted it or not.
