Wounded at Work Read online

  She wasn’t accustomed to being told how to handle a case, and it didn’t set well. She wanted to storm her disapproval.

  “Is that agreeable?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.” Coop and Dirk said at the same time.

  “Fine.” Standing, she refilled her to-go mug and left the room.

  She knew exactly where she was going, and Matt wasn’t going to be happy about it.

  The thought lifted her spirits.

  She detoured by Marshall’s office.

  “Hey, Carrie. Did the guys ream you out like they threatened?”

  “Yep. I need a favor.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Marshall was a great guy and terrific on the computer. He’d helped her cases more than once with his skill. “Can you get me the address for Benjamin Magee’s residence?”

  “Give me a minute. You know you could do this yourself.”

  “But then I wouldn’t get to talk to you,” she teased.

  Marshall was still grinning when he handed her a piece of paper with the information.

  “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one—when are you going to pay up?”

  She laughed, waved, and left.

  First, she had to get her Harley and turn back into her Sandy persona.

  Less than an hour later, she was in her biker duds and hightailing it out of Doc’s garage. Next stop…Benjie’s house.

  There were three FBI cars in the driveway of a small, two-bedroom cottage not far from the bar, but no sedan like the one that had followed her. Maybe Benjie had gone to the bar early.

  She turned around and headed for Magee’s. She wanted to talk to Benjie before Matt and his army got to him.

  So she’d catch hell from Coop and Dirk, probably from Matt as well. They would just have to live with it. She had a missing person to find.

  There were no cars in the parking area. Benjie must have parked in the rear. Carrie drove around the corner and saw his sedan, the same one that had followed her. She drove around the sedan and parked to the side.

  Getting off her bike, she checked to make sure her guns were easily accessible and went to the front door. No answer to her knock. She knocked again, louder this time. Footsteps dragged her way and the lock turned.

  Benjie’s round face peeked out the door. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”

  She shouldered her way inside. “I want to talk to you.”

  He locked the door behind her. A trace of fear whipped through her. She tamped it down. The comfort of the gun under her arm made her straighten up and follow him to the bar.

  Benjie had a bucket of dirty water and a mop that carried years of filth. He swiped it across the floor, leaving a streak of muddy water behind. “You can’t clean dirt with dirt.”

  “It’s the best I can do. If you wanna help, go for it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You need a cleaning crew.”

  “Tell me why you’re here, or get the hell out. You shouldn’t be here, anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  He propped the mop in the dirty water and came her way. She held her breath, her right hand edging closer to her left shoulder.

  “This place isn’t safe for women like you.”

  Now she was getting somewhere. “Tell me why that is?”

  “You’re young and pretty. You don’t belong here. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, Benjie, it isn’t. Tell me exactly why I’m not safe here.”

  He looked around, as if taking in the empty tables and chairs, the windows on the left side that let in a modicum of light in the dark space.

  “Is there anyone else around?”

  Benjie shook his head.

  “Then talk to me.”

  “That woman you’re looking for—she was here a couple of weeks before you came in asking about her.”

  “And?”

  “Others have gone missing after they’ve been in here.”

  Carrie’s body tingled. She was onto something. Something big. “What else?”

  “That’s it. I’m just warning you.” He turned back to his mopping.

  “Then why did you follow me?”

  He turned toward her, his face distorted in confusion. “I’ve never followed you.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’ve seen your car following me more than once, but I managed to lose your ass.”

  He came close. She stepped back.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Who else would take your car?”

  His dark eyes looked a little wild. “I don’t know.”

  “Where do you keep the keys?”

  “On the desk in the office.”

  The keys would be easy to get to. Anyone—from the other bartender to one of the patrons, could borrow it, come back, put the keys where they belong, and no one would ever know. Matt was going to have a fit.

  “Who’s the owner of this place?”

  Benjie shrugged. “Some corporation.”

  “You don’t have a name?”

  “Nope. I get my check every week by courier. So does the help.”

  “You’re a Magee, does a member of your family have part of the action?”

  “Fifteen years ago, my uncle owned it. It’s changed hands a few times since then.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “I’ve been doing this since I turned eighteen. I don’t know anything else. I’ve asked this before, but are you a cop?”

  Carrie laughed. “Not even close. I’m just a nosy broad who wants to find her friend.”

  He didn’t look as if he believed her. She didn’t care. She wanted information. Fast. Before Matt and his crew got here.

  “Can you describe the owner?”

  “I’ve never seen him.”

  There was a loud knock on the door. “FBI. Open up.”

  Benjie’s face paled. “FBI? What the hell are they doing here?”

  Carrie shrugged. She had to get out of here before Matt saw her. He’d tell his brothers, and she didn’t need the hassle.

  “Do you have a back door?”

  “Yes. I’m going with you.”

  “Just tell them what they want to know, Benjie. It won’t be a big deal.”

  “I don’t want to get involved.”

  She hurried to the back, Benjie right behind her. “Trust me. They’ll just question you.” For some reason she believed him. And wanted him to talk to Matt.

  “I’m not telling them shit.”

  The front door caved in with a crash just as Carrie burst out the back, Benjie on her heels.

  Matt stood there, legs spread, his gun held out in front in a firing stance. To the side were three more agents with guns aimed their way. “Going somewhere?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, Carrie skidded to a stop and raised her hands. Who was this man with the unrelenting, hard, dark eyes?

  “Higher!” Matt ordered.

  She glared at the man she considered a friend. One who had kissed her—one who invaded her dreams with sensual love scenes. He glared back without a hint of sympathy or recognition.

  Damn him!

  “Higher!”

  He didn’t know her left arm was damaged. Still, he was being a bastard. She jutted her hip out and glared some more.

  “I haven’t done anything.” Benjie sniffled.

  “Then you should have answered the door.”

  Still no sympathy. This wasn’t the Matt she knew. She had never seen him like this. He was an FBI professional badass, hard and unyielding. She almost giggled. He certainly wasn’t the guy who kissed her senseless a couple of nights ago.

  She started to walk toward him. Every agent on the premises went on alert, their guns at ready. “Don’t move.”

  “Cuff them,” Matt ordered. “And don’t forget the body search.”

  He knew she carried guns. Why
was he doing this?

  A female agent came over to do the honors.

  Carrie didn’t dignify the embarrassment with so much as a word of disapproval as the woman pocketed both of her guns and her cell phone.

  “Take them downtown. I’ll do the interviews myself.”

  Interview? She was going to make Matt pay for this if it was the last thing she did.

  She tried her best to glare bullets his way. He ignored her, holstered his gun, and growled. “Take them in separate cars; put them in separate interrogation rooms. I don’t want them to say one word to each other. I’ll talk to them once we’ve finished our search.” He headed away, then turned back. “Call the two HPD detectives on the case. They might want to be in on this.”

  “Search? You can’t search the place. The boss is going to fire me. He’ll probably do it anyway, with the door ruined.”

  Benjie and his tale of woe were ignored. They were put in separate SUVs and taken away. The last Carrie saw of Matt, he was headed inside the bar. He didn’t give her so much as a backward glance.

  I’m going to kill him.

  An FBI guy who looked to be ready for retirement led her to a small interrogation room and ushered her in before removing her cuffs. One glance and her heart sank. Small. No windows. It was almost a closet. Dear God, could she stay in here and not go crazy? “Can I have a bottle of water?”

  Though his eyes flickered with regret, the agent shook his head. No doubt Special Agent Montgomery had given orders to make her life miserable. Her throat began to close. “How about a phone call?”

  “Later.” He shut the door before she could ask for anything else.

  The room closed in around her. She was eight again. Hysteria built until tears welled. Not now. Not here. How long would Matt keep her? Would he forget about her? Would she have to spend the night in this closet? Would she pee in her pants again? She looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. And it would all be on tape.

  Get a grip. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re a PI with martial arts skills. They can’t hurt you.

  Matt had.

  Think. With no cell phone, she was at their mercy. Not the FBI’s mercy—Matt’s. She paced the small space, doing her best to forget that small spaces turned her into a helpless child. With every step, she cursed Matthew Montgomery.

  She paced until her legs gave out, then sat in an uncomfortable metal chair. She didn’t stay there long before she was on her feet again. She looked at her watch where the hands were moving at such a slow pace she thought it had stopped. Taking it off, she banged it against her hand and put it back on. Nothing changed. She went to the door and turned the handle. Locked. Damn him, anyway. He was treating her like a criminal. Why? Because she’d disobeyed him and gone to Magee’s? Tough. He wasn’t her boss. No, but Coop and Dirk were. And when they found out about this, they were going to be merciless.

  She couldn’t win. There was nothing she could do.

  Exhausted, she slid down the wall in the corner and shut her eyes. As a child, she’d thought that if she could sleep, the time would pass faster. Maybe that would still work.

  An hour later, the door opened. In her exhausted state, she thought her dad had unlocked the door and she could finally go to the bathroom.

  She waited. Would he hit her?

  She didn’t move, just sat there.

  “Get off the floor, Carrie.”

  Matt! Her mind returned to the present.

  How could he do this to her? Why? They were friends. Dream lovers.

  Fighting the urge to get up and pound him into putty, she watched him through almost closed eyelids as he slammed two bottles of water on the table.

  He put a hand out to help her. She ignored it and rose from the floor in one fluid movement.

  He tried to put a bottle of water in her hand. She ignored that as well.

  “My guns?” Her voice was raw, unused, tired. Did she sound like the child she became while locked in here? She hoped not.

  He nodded toward the end of the table at a large yellow envelope. “Your guns and cell phone are in there along with the keys to your bike.”

  With every ounce of dignity she could dredge up, she picked up the envelope and sauntered out of the room.

  “I have to interview you. For the record.”

  “Screw your record.”

  “Don’t you want to know where we put your bike?”

  Yes, she did, but she wouldn’t ask. If she couldn’t find it, she would call a taxi to take her home and report it stolen. Let Matt deal with the aftermath.

  She ignored him. Ignored the look on his face that told her he was waking up to the fact that he’d gone too far.

  A man and woman waited outside the door. They gave her a once-over as she came out of the room and they went inside. She heard Matt address them as detectives.

  The female said, “We didn’t get a thing out of the bartender.”

  Carrie didn’t care. Right now, she didn’t care about anything, except getting to a bathroom, and then to her apartment.

  Fighting tears and exhaustion, she paid no attention to the glances coming her way, and went downstairs. She hit the first bathroom. While washing her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror. Good Lord. Her eyes were bloodshot and angry. Her face was flushed. Her hair hung limp and lifeless. Nothing she could do about it now. She put her guns back where they belonged and felt somewhat better, then went in search of her bike.

  They wouldn’t leave it at the bar, so it had to be here somewhere. She started looking in the street parking area. Not there. She found it in the parking garage on the first floor.

  By now, her legs and body were trembling. Shock at being locked in a closet-sized room? Anger? It took every bit of strength to put on her helmet, straddle the bike, and start the motor. When she gunned the Harley and made the turn to leave the garage, she saw Matt hurrying her way. She flew past him leaving a trail of exhaust fumes she hoped would choke him.

  She headed for Doc’s house. It was closer, and she wanted to garage her bike, get her car, and go home where she could figure out why Matt had treated her so shabbily.

  By the time she pulled into her friend’s driveway, Carrie didn’t think she could make it another mile, much less back to her apartment.

  You do what you have to do, she told herself. Just like when she was growing up.

  Doc met her in the garage.

  Carrie shut down the bike, looped her helmet over the handlebars, and went to her friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so late.”

  “What’s wrong, Carrie? You’re trembling.”

  Doc took Carrie’s arm and led her inside, through the mudroom, and into the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll fix you a cup of tea and you can tell me what happened.”

  “I should go home.” She needed to lie down. Sleep a dreamless sleep. Not dream an erotic love scene with the man who had treated her like a dirt-bag criminal.

  Doc made short order of making tea, and in no time, set a mug in front of Carrie. “Chamomile. It will calm you.”

  Doc gave her a few minutes of silence. Carrie drank the tea, grateful for the fluids her body had cried for for hours. When she finished, Doc poured her mug full again. When it cooled, Carrie drank every drop. “Can I use the bathroom?”

  “You don’t have to ask. You know my home is your home.”

  Carrie staggered to the guest bathroom on wobbly legs. Doc was one in a million. They’d become friends the minute they were introduced at the guys’ get-together, right after she joined the company. Perhaps their instant friendship was because she and Doc had no one in their lives to call family. Or maybe it was because they got along so well.

  Doc had told Carrie numerous times that if her undercover job kept her out late and she wanted to stay over, there was a guest bedroom with her name on it.

  Carrie had used it more than once when an operation took her out until the early morning hours. It was a lifesaver and a comfort. Their friendship couldn�
�t end now.

  Finished with her business, Carrie splashed cool water on her face. Better. Doc always made her feel better. She should go home now before she told Doc what had happened.

  As she made her way back to the kitchen, Carrie realized she could never go to another Saturday get-together and see Matt without being angry. He would look at her, and what? Hate her? Why?

  He wasn’t her boss. They were just friends. Or had been friends. That, too, was over. Carrie wanted to cry. She held back. Doc was worried enough about her as it was.

  “Thanks for the tea, Doc. I’m going home and get some sleep.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” The older woman got up and came over to Carrie. “Have you eaten?”

  Was she kidding? There was no way her stomach could hold food. “I’m not hungry, but thanks.”

  Her hand firmly on Carrie’s arm, Doc led Carrie to the room she’d designated as hers. “There’s a nightshirt in the drawer, a robe in the bathroom. I think you’ll find everything you need.”

  The bed looked too good to say no.

  “Take a shower, honey. You’ll feel better. And if you want to talk afterward, I’ll be here.”

  Carrie wrapped her arms around Doc and held her tight. Doc returned the hug just as fiercely. This was the mother Carrie had dreamed about when she was a child: someone who cared—someone who comforted her when she was in pain. The tears came unbidden. She couldn’t stop them.

  Doc led her to the bed and made her sit down. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Carrie shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks. She had no idea if the tears were because she thought of Doc as the mother she never had, or if it was because Matt had locked her in a closet that brought back childhood nightmares.

  It didn’t matter. Doc had an arm around her, crooning softly that everything would be all right, even though she had no idea what that everything was.

  “If you had been attacked, you would tell me, right?”

  Carrie’s head jerked up. “Please don’t think that. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “Can’t help it.” Doc sighed. “I’m worried about you.”

  Carrie wiped a tissue over her face, dried her eyes. “I’ll take that shower now. Don’t wait up.”