Trust Me Once

  Trust Me Once

  by

  Jan Coffey

  Copyright © 2014 by Nikoo and Jim McGoldrick

  Previously published by Harlequin/Mira 2001 under same title

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: MM Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue – Furlough

  Chapter 1 – Celebrity

  Chapter 2 – Woman in the Rain

  Chapter 3 – Gas

  Chapter 4 – The Closer

  Chapter 5 – Fish

  Chapter 6 – A Cold Shower

  Chapter 7 – In the Woods

  Chapter 8- Complications

  Chapter 9 – Begging Forgiveness

  Chapter 10 – Her Good Name

  Chapter 11 – Codes and Courage

  Chapter 12 – Cutting into Business

  Chapter 13 – Safe Deposit

  Chapter 14 – Unofficially Involved

  Chapter 15 – Flesh and Blood

  Chapter16 – Trust

  Chapter 17 – Stalker

  Chapter 18 – Eternity of a Moment

  Chapter 19 – Late Apologies

  Chapter 20 – A Prison Visit

  Chapter 21 – Need to Get the Show on the Road

  Chapter 22 – Eulogy

  Chapter 23 – Canary

  Chapter 24 – Hard Hat

  Chapter 25 – Waiting for You

  Chapter 26 – One Day at a Time

  Chapter 27 – Jump Start

  Chapter 28 – Not a Word

  Chapter 29 – Deal

  Chapter 30 – Skeletons

  Chapter 31 – Dillinger

  Chapter 32 – Sudden Death

  Chapter 33 – Come with Me

  Chapter 34 – I’ll Sign

  Chapter 35 – Now and Forever

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Adult Correctional Institute, Rhode Island

  August 2

  The black Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the gray stone building. The driver of the car lowered the tinted passenger window and stared across thirty feet of concrete at the armed guard, who was frowning with scarcely veiled disgust from behind bulletproof glass. Sweating profusely, the driver flipped the air conditioner to high and turned his head toward the line of concrete barriers leading from the prison’s gate to where he sat waiting.

  Moments later, a heavy door swung open, and a tall, athletic man in jeans and a black polo shirt emerged. The driver, grunting as he leaned his ponderous body across the center console, pushed open the passenger door, and the inmate climbed nimbly inside.

  In a few minutes, the Mercedes had passed beyond the outer gate. Frankie O’Neal, his sausage-like fingers wrapped around the wheel in a death grip, kept glancing into the rearview mirror as he picked up speed. They passed the sign pointing toward the Interstate and made the turn.

  Letting out a half-sigh of relief, the driver wiped away the beads of perspiration from beneath his lower lip before lighting a cigarette. He looked over at his passenger. “How much time, Jake?”

  Jake Gantley’s eyes flicked toward his cousin. In a single motion, one hand went to the power window button while the other snatched the cigarette from between Frankie’s lips. Jake crushed the cigarette in his fist as he tossed it out of the car.

  “This stuff will kill you, Frankie. Don’t you watch TV...or read?” His mouth turned up in a half smile. “And secondhand smoke is even worse, you know.”

  “Stop screwing around, Jake!” Frankie’s eyebrows, already a straight line connecting above the bridge of his nose, bunched up in agitation. From the driver’s side control panel, he rolled up Jake’s window and glanced nervously again at the mirrors. “I asked how much time!”

  Jake Gantley glanced into the back seat and smiled. “You brought my suit.” He reached over and pulled the plastic-wrapped garment onto his lap. “And you had it cleaned.”

  The driver banged a heavy hand against the steering wheel. “Come on, Jake! Of course I brought your suit. You never do a fucking job without wearing your suit.” He put another cigarette to his lips, then immediately raised a hand protectively. “And you mind your own goddamn business about my health! Now, are you gonna tell me how much time we have or not?”

  “Look at you, Frankie. You’re a fat pig. You smoke. And you worry too much, besides. Last month’s New England Journal of Medicine had an article about stress. I’ll send it to you.”

  The driver rolled his eyes and gnawed at a sore on his lip while his passenger changed his clothes. A few moments later, Frankie watched his cousin knot his tie in the mirror.

  “Listen, Jake. This is important. I need to know when you hafta—”

  “Have you collected?”

  “What? Yeah, of course. Half the full amount. As usual.” Frankie glanced over and found himself begin to relax. All dressed up—his thinning hair combed back, his tie in place, the gray eyes in that cold squint—Jake Gantley had finally joined him. Frankie leaned forward and ran his fingers along the side of the center console until he felt the button beneath the carpeting. As he pressed it, a panel behind the gearshift popped open, revealing a hidden compartment. He pulled out a leather case and handed it to Jake. “How much time?”

  “Five hours.” Jake unzipped the case, slipped the chrome-plated 9mm handgun from its holster and ran a hand over the gleaming metal. Laying the weapon on the floor, he attached the holster to his belt. Then, with movements that were slow—almost reverent—he picked up the pistol, slid in a cartridge clip, and placed it in the holster.

  “So we have to leave Newport no later than quarter after four.” Frankie was still counting hours on his watch. “Jeez. Five hours furlough? That’s not long enough.”

  “That’s plenty long enough for this little lady, Frankie.” Jake turned his cold smile on the driver. “We’ll have time to kill.”

  ~~~~

  The rambling Tudor mansion stretched out atop its perch of grass and rock in the attitude of a lion, lazy and regal, its face raised in the afternoon sun as if testing the breezes for a scent of supper.

  Beneath the rocky bluff that dropped off fifty feet to the Atlantic Ocean, waves crashed in between massive boulders. The salty wind, cool and refreshing in spite of the blazing sun, swept over the gray slate roof of the mansion, past the dozen chimneys and on across the lawns of Astors and Vanderbilts and Whitneys. No force of nature on this day could disturb these century-old monuments to bygone elegance and power.

  Inside, at one end of the Tudor estate, in a spacious apartment looking out over the sea, the sound of surf was drowned out by the hammering beat of Pearl Jam. The music, loud enough to vibrate the neatly arranged prints of Cézanne and Cassatt and Van Gogh, emanated from speakers tucked amid the books lining several walls. Oblivious to the volume of the music, a young woman came down the stairs to the ground floor, her body moving to the beat as she descended.

  A step from the bottom, she halted, switching the
phone from one ear to the other. She looked impatiently at her watch and shook her head.

  “Come on...come on...come on!”

  She caught her reflection in an antique mirror hanging on the wall opposite the stairs and scrutinized her image.

  “Come on, lady. I have places to go. People to see.”

  Placing the phone in the crook of her neck, she ran a hand through her crop of short blond hair and then stepped closer to the mirror. She tightened the back of a gold loop dangling from her earlobe, and brushed her fingers across her cheeks to blend in the blush she’d just applied upstairs. A moment later, satisfied with the face staring back at her, she pushed open the kitchen door. A voice crackled through the phone, and her body tensed.

  “Yes! Of course I’m still on the line. For ten minutes I’ve been holding...No, I can’t hold another—”

  Banging the phone on the counter, she frowned and took a deep breath as she was again put on hold. Glowering, she yanked open the door of the fridge and took out a Diet Pepsi. Kicking the door closed, she stalked into the living room, soda in hand.

  Her eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on a large mahogany desk in the corner. A few reference books sat beside a felt desk blotter, and the answering machine at the other end was partially obscured by newspapers and some ten-year old photographs in a variety of silver frames. She had no sooner reached the desk, when a voice again issued from the telephone.

  “I’m here, and don’t you put me on hold again. Wait a minute, I can’t hear you.” She plunked the can of soda on the desk and hurriedly crossed to the stereo receiver, twisting the volume knob. “Okay, go ahead...No response to the page? Okay. Are you absolutely certain she’ll get the message? You’re sure?”

  As the voice on the other end spoke briefly, the blonde-haired woman frowned again.

  “Okay. Maybe it’s still too early for her to be there. Just have her call me...Yeah...No, I’m not going anywhere. Just be sure the message says it’s important. Good! Thanks a lot.”

  Punching the button on the phone, she tossed it onto a chair. She was clearly thinking of other things as her fingers automatically cranked up the volume on the stereo. Crossing the room to the desk, she reached over the newspapers and picture frames and switched off the answering machine.

  “This next call is for me, honey.” Picking up the can of soda, she was again halfway up the stairs when the sound of the doorbell spun her around.

  “Thatta girl. You found it.” She bounced down the stairs to the front entrance.

  As she pulled open the door, two telephones—the one on the desk and the one on the chair where she’d dropped it—started to ring. She turned her head in surprise, but then looked around at the open door as a man stepped across the threshold. She took an involuntary step backward into the room.

  “Just a sec...”

  Her eyes widened as he lifted the muzzle of a pistol to roughly a foot from her nose. There was no time for thinking—never mind reacting—before he squeezed the trigger, firing two bullets in rapid succession into what had once been a very pretty face.

  Chapter 1

  Rhode Island

  August 16

  Out of nowhere, the headlights appeared behind her, blinding Sarah with their intensity. Blinking her eyes against the glare, she tilted the mirror and hit the rear defrost button again.

  “A lovely night for tailgating,” she murmured, cracking the driver’s window.

  Sarah fished into her bag on the floor of the passenger side and pulled out her friend Tori’s wallet. Flipping it open, she held it up into the light from the car behind her as she glanced again at the contents. The money, the credit cards, the California driver’s license were all there. A pang of guilt settled in her stomach. She could just imagine all the trouble the young woman must have been through over the past two weeks. Sarah knew first-hand what a pain it could be, replacing all this stuff.

  Wind-driven rain continued to slash at the windshield, and Sarah peered through the darkness, trying to ignore the vehicle on her tail.

  It was easy to see when it had happened. Earlier on the same day Sarah had left for Ireland, she’d picked up Tori at the airport. She remembered watching her friend sling the purse into the trunk.

  Sarah dropped the wallet on the passenger seat and tightened her grip on the wheel as her car hydroplaned around a bend in the road. A truck passed in the opposite lane, buffeting the sports car with wind and spray.

  Letting out a nervous breath, she turned up the volume on the radio to hear the weather report of the storm that was punishing the coast. The heavy rains were likely to continue through the night. She turned off the radio and focused on the road ahead. This weather was not part of the cheerful welcome she’d been envisioning for the past two weeks. Well, at least she was home. The worst was behind her.

  She tightened one fist on the steering wheel and tried to make herself believe that.

  Fighting back the sudden pooling of tears, she tried to erase the image of her father as the dark-suited corpse she’d seen in the open casket. John Rand was no longer the tall man with dancing green eyes and the powerful laugh.

  It was the laugh she would make herself remember, and not the arguing before the separation. She would force out the memories of those nights as a child when she had prayed aloud and buried her head in a pillow. No, she would remember his laugh, and his eyes, and his warmth as he cuddled her on his lap and held her close to his heart.

  The rain was coming down even harder now, and she flipped the wiper blades on to full speed. The high beams reflecting in her mirrors were as unrelenting as the sheets of rain.

  She had no clear memory of the day he left. She knew she didn’t want to remember it. And maybe some day she would forget the bitterness that had lived in her mother’s eyes and put the edge in her voice to the day she died.

  Sarah shook her head. As for herself, she would just remember him as John Rand. Maybe even as the father he never was. Just green dancing eyes and a laugh.

  The car behind her edged closer. The high beams glared threateningly in the side mirror.

  “And can I help it if there’s no passing zone?” Sarah sped up a bit.

  She glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten thirty eight. Not too late to call Hal again when she got home. Sarah had left him a message, but she knew better than anyone his penchant for checking them about once a week.

  She was bone tired. The flight from Shannon had been long. And the wait at JFK for the connecting flight to Providence had seemed even longer. But there was too much on her mind, and she needed to talk to someone. Someone who would listen. Someone who had recently gone through what she had just gone through. Someone like Hal.

  Sarah glanced again in the mirror and frowned at the headlights of the car behind her. There wasn’t another car on the road. She pressed her foot on the accelerator, and her sports car gained some ground. The gain was only momentary, and the headlights closed the distance.

  “Ass.” Sarah pressed her foot to the floor. Her effort was in vain as the lights again slithered up behind her.

  The shoulder widened, and Sarah pulled the car off the travel lane. Slowing down, she glanced back for the driver behind her to make his move past her.

  The other car pulled onto the shoulder, as well, staying on her tail.

  Sarah tried to swallow the sudden knot of fear that rose in her throat, and reached for the lock button. She pressed it hard and tried to get a look at the driver beyond the blinding high beams. But there was nothing she could see—nothing but the lights’ fierce glare piercing the driving rain. Pulling back into the travel lane, she looked at a passing speed limit sign. Forty-five.

  “You’re in no danger,” she murmured, trying to ignore the cold pool of liquid in her belly. With the exception of that truck, the road was deserted because of the weather and the hour, but she was only about three miles from Wickford, if she needed to get to a town.

  The sudden dimming of the headlights behind he
r and the appearance of flashing lights on the dash of her pursuer elicited a gasp of relief from Sarah. She immediately eased up on the gas. Again there was no shoulder, but she pulled to the right side of the road to allow the unmarked police car to go by. The large sedan stayed behind her, though, lights flashing.

  “You scared me into speeding!”

  She slowed and stopped.

  As the police car halted behind her, a dark figure emerged from the passenger side. Then, to her surprise, the vehicle pulled around and angled in front of her, effectively blocking the car.

  “Oh, brilliant. Just what I need. Officer Overkill makes the collar!” She reached for her license and registration, keeping an eye on the driver of the unmarked car. He was just stepping out. His flat-brimmed hat was covered with plastic, and he shrugged into a raincoat before coming around his sedan.

  Before she got a good look at his face a flashlight was shining in her window, drawing her attention. The officer kept the light directly in her eyes, and Sarah lifted a hand to block the glare.

  He was standing close to the car, and she glanced away from the light. Dark gray pants flapped in the wind, and large black shoes reflected the red flashing light of the police car. The two policemen didn’t appear to be concerned with the driving rain, and the driver of the unmarked vehicle was now flashing his light into the car from the passenger side, covering every inch of the interior.

  Before the officer could say anything, Sarah had her driver’s license and car registration sticking out of the small opening of her window.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it?” she asked, watching him flash his light on her license. The brim of the hat obstructed her view of his face.

  “So what have I done wrong, officer?” Suddenly, it struck her as odd that at least one of them wasn’t returning to their car to run a check on her license. The wind pushed at the raincoat. She hadn’t even seen a badge.