Stranger Face: Book 3 Faces Series

By Kathryn Flatt

Tracy Wiley never expected or wanted more adventure. Solving problems for wealthy Miami clients by day, she relishes her peaceful, well-ordered life by night. Then old friend Kevin Fox, the C.I.A. agent once assigned to protect her, arrives at her door under unusual circumstances and wants to hire her to help him with his current assignment. Although she would like to refuse, he seems desperate and she feels she owes him for saving her life more than once. Together they embark on a road trip to Chicago so Fox can learn who instigated an international incident and then tried to kill him. He suspects someone in the intelligence community and wants Tracy along to keep anyone paying attention off balance. With no more explanation than that, Tracy plunges blindly into a surreal world of sleazy bars inhabited by some of the strangest people she's ever seen. But when the trip ends in a murder, she finds herself stuck in the middle between Fox, the police, and shadowy players who would prefer she be silenced. If she can first figure out what secret everyone wants to keep, Tracy will have to choose between protecting herself or protecting a friend while knowing either or both of them could wind up dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jul 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781613861349

Book preview

Stranger Faces

Volume 3: Faces Series

by

Kathryn Flatt

Published by Write Words Inc. at Smashwords

copyright 2013 Kathryn Flatt

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

WARNING: Making copies or distributing this file, either on disk, CD, or over the Internet is a Federal Offense under the U.S. Copyright Act, and a violation of several International Trade Agreements.

Chapter 1

A Friend in Need

Hi there. My name is Tracy Wiley.

The uniformed Miami cop behind the desk finished writing on a form before he raised his head to acknowledge me. And you’re here for?

Peter Sherman.

He nodded and searched through a stack of folders on the corner of the desk. Weren’t you in here last week?

Sure was, I answered and flashed a smile. But I hope I won’t have to be here next week.

The man smirked as he stuck his form in a folder and then rose from his seat. This way.

I followed him to an interrogation room I knew too well. He opened the door to let me in before returning to his desk.

Peter Sherman sat at the long table, head down on his folded arms.

Hello, Pete, I greeted.

He sat erect and blinked red, watery eyes at me. For a man approaching his fortieth birthday, he looked more like fifty. Too bad, since he must have been somewhat attractive before the ravages of alcohol.

After his partially pickled brain worked it out, he mustered a boozy grin. Hiya, Tracy. Fancy meeting you here.

I sighed. Come on, Pete. Time to go home.

He tried to stand but wavered dangerously, so I went to his side and grabbed his arm.

I can drive, he whined and managed to slur all three syllables.

"No, you can’t. Third time driving drunk, Pete. They took your license. Besides, you’re still too wasted even if you had a car and license."

Pete let me lead him into the corridor, his watery eyes suggesting he might start to cry. I’ll bet Des is pissed.

Disappointed, I corrected. Better get ready because he’s talking rehab.

Pete shuffled along and shook his head. Don’t want no rehab.

I know that, but Des cares about you, I argued patiently. It hurts him to see you do this to yourself.

Hmpf, he grunted. He waved to various police officers as we passed through the outer office. If he cares so much, why doesn’t he come here himself?

Same song and dance as a week ago, and I suppressed another sigh. Because he’s a Commissioner and he also has a wife and two kids. My job did not include mediating interpersonal disputes unless otherwise stated in the contract for services. I felt sorry for Pete, who was not a bad guy, but he refused to accept the truth of his situation—a hopeless love triangle. We’ve been over this at least twice before.

Outside, I guided him to my rickety old Ford sedan. He wrinkled his nose when he got in. It stinks in here.

That’s because you puked in it when I took you home last week. I rolled down the windows. I suggest if you feel the urge coming on, you give me a heads-up so I can pull over.

He slouched in the passenger seat and rested his head on the door. Within seconds, he began to snore, which meant he probably would not be vomiting any time soon.

A typical sort of job for me as the Fixer in Residence at the law firm of Alexander Laughlin. Business had boomed after the True Brilliant Path scandal the previous year, and we saw an influx of better clientele, including Commissioner Desmond Taylor, some mega-millionaire business types, a handful of celebrities, and two professional ball players, among others. We still dealt with a lot of regular folks too, and Alex devoted at least one day a week to pro bono cases. I spent most of my time with the big dogs because they were usually the ones who had problems that did not require a lawyer as much as a delicate touch to solve without creating a public relations nightmare. And they could afford to hire someone to handle them. A lot of my assignments consisted of wrangling miscreants attached to the client, like Pete, but it helped pay the bills and took advantage of my somewhat unusual skill set.

The security guard at the gate to the parking deck at Pete’s condo recognized my car and waved me through. My decrepit rust-bucket generally made a strong impression, even if not a favorable one. I thought frequently about replacing it, but a new car did not come up very high on the budgeting priority list since mine still worked. I parked near the freight elevator and poked my passenger in the shoulder.

Home again, home again. Wake-y, wake-y.

He reminded me of a large old dog back from a swim when he shook himself awake. He managed to emerge from the car without assistance and turned toward the street exit.

No, no, old buddy. I grabbed his arm and reversed his course. Time to face the music.

I won’t go back to rehab, he stated, with a touch of temper making it through the alcohol haze.

That’s for you and Des to figure out between you, I stated and herded him to the elevator. But if you want my advice—

I don’t want no advice neither, he grumped.

Fair enough. We boarded the lift and I punched his floor number. Once Pete began heading toward sobriety, he became prickly as all get out, so I stayed silent and watched the indicator panel’s progress.

What kind of advice? Pete asked around the fifteenth floor.

Face facts, I told him. You punish Des with your drinking because he won’t give up his wife and kids for you. The more you punish him, though, the less likely he is to do that. You’re running in a vicious circle, and you need to break out of it or else you’ll never wind up anyplace but back where you started. The doors opened at the penthouse level. Then again, if you keep on drinking, you just might break out of it anyway when your liver goes to pot or you accidentally kill somebody and end up in jail or—

Okay, okay, he snarled. I get it.

I doubted I had made a significant impression on him, but he did ask. How he handled his life was up to him.

He jerked out of my grasp as we walked through the hallway to his door. He fumbled with and dropped the key card when we got there, so I took it and worked the lock to let us in.

Commissioner Desmond Taylor popped out of his chair as we entered. His expression registered somewhere between anger and relief. For God’s sake, Pete. I was worried sick.

Spare me, Pete sneered. That why you sent this nice lady to the lockup to fetch me? Because you were worried?

Don’t start with me, Des warned, shaking a finger at him. You know I—

Hey, fellas, I interrupted. Can I conclude my business here before you get into it? It’s getting on towards dinner time, and I want to go home.

Des Taylor’s handsome face reddened in embarrassment. Pete, go take a shower.

Pete stumbled down the hall while muttering, bouncing from wall to wall like a talking pinball. I brought out my organizer with its pad of specially printed forms.

Thank you, Tracy, Des said humbly. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble this time.

Trouble’s my job, I said as I filled out a receipt. An hour and a half of time plus four fifty for the tow truck to bring his car back here. I sweet-talked the police into waiving the impound fee since it wasn’t there very long. I tore off the sheet and handed it to him.

He signed his name and gave it back. You know, I told Alex what a great asset you are to his firm. Having someone like you to handle these delicate issues is so rare for a small firm and an extraordinary help, especially with your exemplary discretion. I’ve mentioned it to a number of my friends.

Well, thank you. Praise and appreciation always made a nice addition to the money. We certainly welcome referrals.

But doesn’t it get depressing sometimes? Always dealing with problems?

I barely glanced at the receipt before tucking it into my book. Let’s face it, the only reason there are lawyers is because people get into trouble. We just try to help. I smiled and shrugged. What can I say? It’s a living.

Back in my car, I retrieved the receipt for six hundred dollars. I smiled as I took a picture of it with my cell phone, the rush of actually bringing in money to the business still strong even after so many months. Then I called the office.

Attorney’s Office. May I help you?

Me, Francie. Ana Maria Francesca Golino Cabrera, our part-time office assistant, preferred a simple nickname. Did Alex check in?

Oh, hi, Tracy. A little bit ago, he said he was leaving Fort Lauderdale and going straight home.

I fiddled with my phone and emailed the picture of the receipt to her. I just sent you the bill for Drunky Boy, and I’m heading home. You mind locking up?

"No problem. See you in the morning. Ciao."

I pointed my car for home and reflected on the Commissioner’s question about dealing with problems, but my answer had been the complete truth. Sure, it got depressing sometimes, seeing how people could mess up their lives, but my life was on a good track and I could leave their problems behind at the end of the day. My earlier encounters with high adventure had left a bad taste in my mouth, and as my father had once advised, I embraced the quiet times. I no longer sought or relished excitement, certainly not the kind in the dangerous category.

The route home took me past my old apartment building on Collins Avenue, or what remained of it. The preservationist society had lost its bid to save the 1940s building because it had been remodeled so many times in the past and no longer met the qualifications of historic stature. Half of it had fallen to the wrecking ball already. I sometimes missed the place I called home for so many years, but once the property sold to a developer, Alex and I had to move out. Only one of many changes since the True Brilliant Path affair. I had changed. I no longer feared commitment or planning for the future, and I had acted on my lack of fear in both areas.

After an easy commute, I turned into the driveway of the new end-unit two-bedroom townhouse we purchased in a quiet suburban neighborhood a few miles from our office in Little Havana. The pink stucco exterior seemed to glow in the lowering sun, and the smell of tropical flora filled the air. So what if the development came off a little cookie-cutter-ish? It was safe, clean, quiet, and convenient. The garage entrance on the east side of the building, slightly set back from the front façade, was already shrouded in shadows, but the door opened at the push of a button and then closed behind me to provide a sense of security. I smiled from a profound sense of home.

From the garage, I entered the kitchen, and the aroma of dinner in the slow cooker tantalized. I decided I would wait on dinner for Alex and use the last remnants of sunlight for a quick run around the block. I could get some exercise and still have time for a shower before he got home. Passing through the dining room with its new furniture and the living room with the art deco stuff from the old apartment, I climbed the stairs to the second floor to change into running gear.

I did some stretches in the driveway and then jogged out to the sidewalk at a pace targeted to bring me back in less than thirty minutes. I shut down all thoughts of the day’s labors and enjoyed a serene contentment, exchanging waves with other neighbors as they arrived home or walked their dogs. The air turned cooler as twilight came on which made my exercise session much more enjoyable. I sometimes missed my old runs on the beach, but the loss of them came up a minor one compared to all I had gained. I am genuinely happy with my life.

Back at home, I stopped to pick up the mail at the curb side box. A postcard from my father and his new wife, Celeste, brought a smile to my face. It made me feel good he had found as much happiness as I had, and maybe part of it was a touch of relief at him having someone besides me to take care of him. I had, on occasion, wondered how much his finding Celeste had allowed me to stop worrying about him so much and feel free to re-center my life around someone else. But he was happy, I was happy, everyone was happy, and it bestowed a sense of peace. That Pappy thought to interrupt his honeymoon in Hawaii to drop us a note touched me, and his claim to have tried snorkeling widened my smile to a grin as I imagined what a scene it must have been. He and Celeste were probably already on their way to Detroit to visit with her married son and his family.

Hi, Tracy.

I turned my head at the familiar voice. Hey, Zak.

A veteran from the war in Iraq, Warren Mikolajczak lived alone next door and kept to himself most of the time. He had some strong paranoiac tendencies and most people thought him kind of spacey. He cut an unusual presence with his square face, ponytail of long, frizzy hair, and a blocky body always packaged in camouflage fatigues. Alex and I had managed to win his trust and found him an ideal neighbor once we overcame his survivalist tendencies. Always ready to offer a helping hand, Zak could fix anything broken with the astonishing collection of tools, spare parts, devices, and other stuff that crammed his townhome to near bursting. He also noticed everything going on up and down the street.

His place was the mirror image of ours conjoined at a garage wall, and our mailboxes shared a post, so we met there often.

Someone was here earlier, he announced. Guy rang your bell a few times and kept staring up at the windows. I came out to tell him you weren’t home, but by the time I got here, he was gone.

Salesman, maybe?

He didn’t go nowhere’s else, and he didn’t have a sales guy kind of look.

I shrugged. Maybe he was lost, on the wrong block.

Maybe. He sorted through his stack of mail as he headed back to his door. See ya.

I too headed indoors while shuffling through the mail. I dropped it on the counter just inside the door and prepared to hit the shower.

A noise stopped me on the third stair. Thinking Alex had arrived home early, I changed course for the garage, but when I opened the connecting door, only my car sat in the dark. For no reason I could fathom, I felt certain the sound had not come from Zak’s place, and so it warranted investigation. Sliding glass doors in the kitchen gave access to a tiny patio shaded by palm trees and shielded from a view of the backs of more buildings by a trellis. I flipped on the outside light but saw nothing amiss out there.

When I shut it off, I thought I detected movement from the corner of my eye and turned back. As quietly as possible, I slid the patio door open a crack in time to hear a brief rustling among the shrubs at the back wall of the garage. Two strides got me to the switch for the kitchen light, which I shut off to be better able to see into the darkness outside. At the door again, I saw nothing, heard nothing.

Who’s there? I called. Sometimes the direct approach worked wonders, but not this time.

After about a minute, I heard more shrubbery rustlings and recalled some neighbors had mentioned night creatures raiding garbage cans—stray pets, raccoons, whatever. I went to the kitchen junk drawer for a flashlight, and leaving all the other lights off, I edged quietly outside.

I played the beam over the shrubs along the back wall of the garage, but no movement resulted. I turned off the flashlight and waited a few seconds to give the critter time to decide the coast was clear. From behind the wall, I heard the garage door opener in operation, and I abandoned the hunt in favor of meeting Alex when he came in.

As I stepped onto the patio, a shadow moved behind the privacy screen, and I froze. No critter. Something big. Adrenaline surged.

Tracy? Alex called from inside.

The shadow came at me, and it moved fast. Instinct alone sent my right fist at the man-shape when it got close. He went down hard at my feet.

Alex! I called. Out here.

He flipped on the lights for the kitchen and patio and came out. What are you—? He broke off and his eyes grew wide at the sight of the heap in front of me.

I hit him. Dazed, I massaged my hand. I thought we had a raccoon or something and came out here and there he was.

Alex crouched beside the intruder who lay curled up on his side. He grabbed his shoulder and pulled him over onto his back.

Oh my God, he intoned.

Shock upon shock sent my heart into my throat. Kevin Fox lay unconscious on our patio. The C.I.A. agent assigned to protect me during the Griegos affair, the one who had engineered my rescue from the cult compound of the True Brilliant Path. I had just knocked him out cold.

I, I called out but he didn’t answer, I stammered.

Alex lifted one of Fox’s eyelids. What’s he doing here?

Besides sneaking around our backyard, I have no idea what he’s doing here.

We’d better take him inside, Alex said. He rolled Fox onto his back and then lifted him to a sitting position.

Shouldn’t we call an ambulance? I asked. "I mean, I didn’t think I hit him that hard, but—"

I don’t think he’d want us to without consulting him, Alex answered. We don’t know what his situation is. Grab his feet.

I did, impressed by Alex’s quick thinking. Between us, we hauled Fox into the kitchen and deposited him on the floor. In the light, his pale face sported a stubbly beard. Dark shadows under his eyes added to the haggard appearance. Then I noticed the dark, wet stain on his shirt just above his waist.

I pointed a shaking finger. "Alex? I think he was injured before I hit him."

He touched the spot lightly and then showed me red fingers. Go get Zak.

I dashed out the patio doors and rapped on Zak’s set. His kitchen lay in darkness, but I could see the bluish glow of his computer monitors through the passage to the living room. I knocked again more urgently until the light was blocked by a moving figure. My neighbor turned on his patio light and slid the door open.

Hey, Zak, I greeted, somewhat breathless. Need your help.

His brow furrowed. What’s up, Tracy?

The guy you saw at my door today? He was lurking around our patio, and I decked him. But he’s actually someone we know and has some other injuries.

Zak’s face had transformed from puzzled to a determined scowl. Give me a sec. He disappeared into the gloom, and true to his word, returned a moment later carrying a small plastic toolbox.

Back in the kitchen, Alex crouched next to Fox. He had opened Fox’s shirt to reveal a swath of duct tape stuck to the skin under the left half of his rib cage. Blood leaked through and around it. He gazed up at me, puzzled and wary.

Thought you said you decked him, Zak said as he crouched on Fox’s other side.

But I—

Kidding, Zak said through a smirk. Could you get me a bowl of hot water and a clean cloth?

I hopped to it and filled a plastic bowl at the sink. I carried a tray with the bowl and a fresh dish towel and handed them to Zak. I folded two more towels to put under Kevin’s head.

Who is he? Zak asked.

A friend, Alex answered. He works for the government. Who’d put duct tape on a wound?

He probably did it himself, Zak replied. He picked gingerly at the edges of the tape. It makes a quick emergency bandage that stands up to a lot of abuse. He pried up a corner of tape and began to peel it off.

Fox came to life and grabbed Zak’s wrist. Bloodshot sapphire eyes glared at him.

Steady there, Zak crooned. His captive hand reddened under pressure, but he did not flinch.

It’s okay, Kevin, I put in quickly. He’s here to help. He was a medic in Iraq.

Fox darted a glance at me, at Alex, and then let go of Zak. He winced sharply when the whole bandage came off.

Beneath it, dried and partially dried blood surrounded a small but ragged wound.

Nasty, Zak commented as he dabbed at it gently with the wet towel. What happened?

Fox closed his eyes. I fell. His normally smooth, cultured voice came out raspy and weak.

Onto somebody’s knife?

He moved his head slowly from side to side.

Is he the one you saw around earlier? I asked Zak.

He nodded and peered closely at the wound. It’s not very deep and probably doesn’t need stitches. Most of the bleeding’s already stopped, and he probably didn’t hit anything vital since he’s been able to go walking around. He might be suffering more from fatigue than blood loss. He twisted the cap from a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from his kit. I’ll clean it up and slap a good bandage on it. He eyed his patient. "I assume you’re up to date