See How She Runs (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 2) Read online

  SEE HOW SHE RUNS

  A Cape Trouble Novel

  By Janice Kay Johnson

  ISBN-10: 0989041867

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9890418-6-7

  See How She Runs

  Copyright 2014 Janice Kay Johnson

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Seductive Designs

  Photo copyright: Couple © 123RF.com/Tatjana Strelkova

  Photo copyright: Woman Running © Depositphotos.com/Viktor Cap

  Photo copyright: Crosshair © Depositphotos.com/Radek Mühl

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  About The Author

  Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson

  TWISTED THREADS - CHAPTER ONE

  PROLOGUE

  Naomi Varner clutched her cell phone in a shaking hand as she strained for any sound. She’d squeezed herself into a corner, completely alone in a vast and usually noisy, bustling restaurant kitchen.

  Had they seen her?

  She gazed longingly at the back door, but didn’t dare do anything so out of the ordinary as take off when there were still people in her restaurant. She already knew at least one off-duty cop was patrolling inside, and what if there was another one outside, walking the perimeter?

  Her stomach cramped painfully and she bent forward. Oh, God, was she crazy? Why hadn’t she run the second she heard instead of trying to get some proof? Her effort at being a good citizen might make her a dead citizen.

  She could not believe any of this. How was it possible she had just heard a guy she had been dating agree to kill someone for money? A shitpot full of money. And be collected and businesslike about it.

  An hysterical laugh rose in her throat. She clapped her free hand over her mouth barely in time to silence it. He’d told her he was a businessman. That the private meetings she’d been letting him hold here in her restaurant after closing were business meetings. Negotiations. And, oh God, they were, just not any kind of business she could ever have imagined.

  Greg Cobb was a contract killer.

  She tried to wrap her mind around the idea.

  No, worse than that; he must have some kind of criminal organization, or he’d be more of a loner than he was. She’d teased him about needing bodyguards, assuming his problem was being rich enough to have to worry about getting kidnapped. Now she thought those off-duty police officers who worked for him must have a lot more of a clue as to what he did for a living than she’d had. Cops, working for some kind of crime boss. What that said about them—

  Her teeth chattered.

  There’d been a freaking FBI agent sitting at the table during the meeting. The one during which Greg had matter-of-factly told a rising politician he’d take care of his opponent and make it look like an accident. Even better – he’d find a way to add a hint of scandal to the death. Make sure there was a whore in the car with him. Something like that.

  On an electric zap of hope, she thought, if the third man at the table really was FBI, what if this was a sting? Greg could have agreed to go along with it.

  Wouldn’t he have told her? Maybe not, if the FBI had asked him not to.

  She closed her eyes. No, that made no sense. A sting didn’t include the FBI agent sitting at the table and offering proof of his identity. The leather folio might have been a fake…but from her glimpse, it looked real enough.

  Anyway, why would Donovan Greer, California State Senator now running for the U.S. House of Representatives, open his big mouth in front of the agent unless he knew the guy was dirty? In fact, now that she thought about it, Senator Greer’s tone had suggested all he was doing was putting a face with a name he already knew.

  All of her was quaking now. Her stomach roiled. The square-edge of counters was all that held her up.

  If anyone had caught a glimpse of her, they’d have come after her right away, wouldn’t they? Yes! So if she was just cool enough, she’d be okay. She had to pull herself together.

  Any minute now, Greg would push open the swinging door and say, “We’re done, babe. Thanks for letting me use your place again. Hey, let me walk you out to your car.” Where he’d want to kiss her, and right now she was afraid she’d puke if he tried.

  He’d been in profile to the door, open just a couple of inches, when she’d run the video function on her phone to catch him and Greer in living color and sound. What if he’d seen?

  She’d never done any acting, but tonight had to be a first time. Yep. If she could stop hyperventilating, that would be a good start.

  Even better would be getting her phone out of sight. She dropped it in her bag.

  Barely in time. The door opened and he strolled in, sandy-haired, handsome, sharp in a beautiful dark suit even though the tie hung loose and he’d undone the top couple buttons on his white shirt.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.” He raised his eyebrows, studying her. “You okay? You look hot and bothered.”

  Naomi wrinkled her nose at him. “Thanks. Hot might be a compliment. Bothered, not so much.”

  He laughed, but she had the feeling he was still assessing her. Not believing her act.

  She huffed out a breath. “I just checked for some ingredients I need tomorrow, and we’re low. I’m pissed. Somebody dropped the ball.”

  “Will you have to change your menu?”

  “Tell diners they can’t have something on the menu? No, I’ll have to pay premium prices to get what I need in here before I start cooking. In fact, I’m going to do a more thorough check right now, before I go home. Shoot off some emails.” He knew she had a small office off the kitchen.

  “I don’t like to think of you here alone.” The pause felt significant. “It’s not safe.”

  Something seemed to skitter up her spine.

  The words were okay. Sort of…concerned. But his eyes were flat. It came to her suddenly that they always were. He smiled, he said the right things, but he had really cold eyes.

  And she was projecting because of what she now knew.

  Naomi forced a smile “I’ll be fine.” Shaking knees or no, she started toward her office, praying he’d just think she was preoccupied because of her potential disaster.

  Yesterday, she would have thought running out of serrano peppers or cornichons a disaster. Time for a new definition.

  His arm swept out to catch her half way across the kitchen. She flinched, despite all her resolve, then raised a horrified gaze to his. They stared at each other. His expression never changed.

  After a moment, he shook his head. “Naomi.”
Was that regret she heard?

  “I’m…just in a lousy mood,” she managed, apologetically.

  His arm dropped from her waist. Those cold eyes swept over her one last time. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Don’t walk me out. I’ll lock behind myself.”

  Her “thank you” wasn’t much better than a whisper.

  He nodded, and was gone. No “I’ll call you.” Looking down, she saw the tremor in her hands. Had he felt it? What had that last look meant?

  Nothing. It meant nothing. He’d left, hadn’t he?

  She had to stay for a few minutes, in case he’d been suspicious. He’d expect the lights in the kitchen to stay on, her car to remain in her spot for…she didn’t know. Twenty minutes? Half an hour?

  She desperately wanted to run the video, see if she’d actually captured what she thought she had. Whether faces were recognizable, words clear and not indecipherable mumbles.

  Not here.

  Her mind wasn’t ready to grapple with the problem of who she could go to with the recording if it was any good.

  A faint shush of sound came from the other side of the swinging door. She went rigid, ice sliding over her skin. Had Greg not left? Or…had his help not left?

  Maybe she was hearing things.

  But a man slapped open the door with such force she sprang back several feet, pulse racing. Eyes on her, he crossed the kitchen.

  This wasn’t the off-duty cop she’d seen before, the one who’d been in the men’s room when she eavesdropped. This guy wore a rumpled sports coat that didn’t go all that well with his slacks. He was maybe early fifties, hair graying and receding, eyes weary. And when her gaze dropped to his waist, she couldn’t miss the police shield on his belt. Seeing where she was looking, he swept the coat back with one hand, exposing a big black handgun.

  “Ms. Varner.”

  Naomi backed up until she bumped against the huge, stainless steel refrigerator, then edged sideways. She kept her body angled, hoping he couldn’t see her right arm and hand. He never took his eyes off her.

  “You’re a police officer, right?” Her voice was too high. “I have to tell you, you’re freaking me out. How did you get in?” Panic balled in her throat. “What do you want?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “If you have questions,” she said in a rush, “can’t they wait until tomorrow?”

  “No.” A resigned note in his voice made her heart squeeze in terror even before, with shocking speed, he drew his gun and pointed it at her. “I’m afraid not. No good in putting off something that needs to be done.”

  A pained look in his eyes said he didn’t want to kill her, but he was going to. That’s what he meant.

  The unthinkable filled her head: I’m going to die.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detective Adam Rostov was bored out of his skull. Being stuck on hold was his idea of hell, and he spent a lot of time there. This was not the life of thrills and chills his rookie self had imagined.

  He growled an obscenity. The detectives at neighboring desks didn’t so much as turn their heads. Malone was hammering at his keyboard, mumbling under his breath, Santiago glowering at his computer monitor with a telephone tucked between ear and shoulder. On hold, sure as shit. Four desks away, Ryan Farrell had his chair tilted back, his feet planted on his desk, and was staring into space. He, at least, was free to think without that bland music numbing his brain cells.

  Another day in the office.

  When Adam’s cell phone rang, he grabbed it. Right this minute, he’d have welcomed a call from a creditor dunning him. The number that did show sent a trickle of adrenaline into his blood stream.

  “Weismann,” he said.

  “Rostov.”

  The fact that FBI Special Agent Sam Weismann was keeping his voice low had the adrenaline production increasing. The two of them maintained a cautious, generally friendly relationship. Sam’s brother was married to Adam’s sister. On a couple of previous occasions, they had had an exchange of information not strictly authorized.

  “You know about the wiretap on Gregory Cobb.”

  Even as the elevator music was abruptly cut off in his other ear and a voice started speaking, Adam hung up his desk phone. He switched the Samsung to his right ear. “Yes.” Thanks to Weismann.

  “They’ve found the chef.”

  The hand on the desk fisted. He’d been waiting a long time for this. “They saying what they’re going to do about it?”

  “The indication is that she’s got something on them. They’re nervous. I think it’s safe to say there will be an…approach.”

  Adam grunted. If Cobb’s organization wasn’t already moving, he had every intention of beating them to Naomi Varner.

  “How’d they find her?” he asked, the roughness of his voice betraying more than he’d have liked.

  Perhaps in response to it, Sam Weissman paused. “She opened another restaurant.”

  He shook his head. No need to comment. First rule when you wanted to disappear: do not follow your previous career. Also previous hobbies, relationships, habits. But first and foremost: do something else for a living.

  “Little place in a town called Cape Trouble. Oregon coast.”

  He grunted. She shouldn’t have stayed on the west coast, either. “You get a name?”

  “No name. No address or phone number. But how many restaurants can there be?”

  “If it’s tourist country, quite a few.” Didn’t matter. “Thanks, Sam. I owe you one.”

  “You going to be okayed to go after her?”

  No. His lieutenant professed to be puzzled by his obsession with a woman who had never been considered a suspect despite the fact that a homicide detective – his homicide detective, Adam’s partner – had been stabbed to death in her restaurant kitchen, with her knife that had her fingerprints on it. That she was the one to find the body. The lieutenant’s puzzlement at Adam’s continuing questions had become irritation, which then moved right along to a chilly refusal to hear one more goddamn word about Naomi Varner, and could he please - add in a couple of obscenities - remember the investigation wasn’t theirs?

  Then there’d been the near-career ending incident when Adam had overheard that asshole Roy Valdez loudly telling another cop that Frank Donahue had to have been dirty. “Restaurant was closed, and it’s not even in our jurisdiction. Better yet, Greg Cobb was having some kind of private party. You gotta ask yourself what ol’ Frank was doing there.”

  Adam knew too well the damaging effect of that kind of talk, however little it was based on reality. By God, Frank’s wife and kids weren’t going to live under that suspicion, not if he had anything to do with it.

  Enraged, he’d confronted Valdez and stopped just short of removing a few of his teeth. The lieutenant hadn’t been real pleased with him. He also hadn’t shut Valdez’s speculation down, undercutting any loyalty Adam had felt for him.

  Now, studying a map he’d pulled up on his computer, Adam said only, “I’ll see if I can get a flight into Portland tonight. I can be in this Cape Trouble by morning. If you learn anything more, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  The way his lips drew back from his teeth might have been misconstrued as a smile if anybody had been looking. He said goodbye and pushed away from his desk.

  Lucky he had weeks of vacation saved up. Most people went to the Caribbean or Hawaii in late November, but him, he thought he might enjoy a good storm. Made a change from southern California’s eternal sunshine.

  *****

  “We’re full up, and have three people waiting for tables,” Anita Barnes said cheerfully, clipping two new order slips on the line in the window separating pantry/service area from the kitchen.

  Naomi glanced at the two additions and opened the industrial refrigerator. “Locals won’t like having to wait.”

  “All three are tourists.” Anita frowned. “Visitors, anyway.” She grabbed the coffeepot and disappeared.

  Fr
ench toast was especially popular this morning. Dipping thick slabs of whole wheat sourdough bread in the delicately spiced egg batter, Naomi reflected briefly on her waitress’s unexpected expression. Apparently, one or all of the people waiting for tables were unfamiliar to Anita, but not standard issue tourist. If there was such a thing.

  The momentary zing of anxiety was understandable, after the article she’d seen last night on her laptop. She had a few Google Alerts set to be sure she saw anything that came up about them. The piece was short, from the Los Angeles Times. The investigation into the murder of a California state senator that had taken place two years ago had been reopened. No hint why. Had a new witness come forward?

  Wondering had kept her awake half the night. Just the reminder now was enough to make her skin prickle, as if there was too much electricity in the air.

  Stupid. She’d be glad if they really solved that murder. There was nothing about it to lead anyone to her. This morning was no different than any other morning.

  People did conduct everyday, average business in Cape Trouble, just like anywhere else. Almost every businessperson dealt with suppliers. The new resort being built north of town, on the other side of the point crowned by the lighthouse, had a lot of strangers coming and going. Long timers in town were alternately excited by the prospect of increased business, and irritated because they didn’t expect to have to wait in line in the off season for a cup of coffee or to buy a book – or to get a table when they went out for breakfast. Only a few months ago, townsfolk had mostly united in an effort to preserve fifty acres on the south side of Mist River from the evil developers. They’d succeeded – but progress couldn’t be halted.

  And progress, like it or not, had the Sea Watch Café considerably busier than it had been in November last year.

  Naomi turned out food as fast as she could, until Anita, a comfortably plump, middle-aged woman, appeared with dirty dishes, no new orders, and an expression of satisfaction.