Taking Care of the Target Read online

  “Yep, a real peach,” Cassie said.

  Labeled boxes sat around the room, creating an obstacle course that led to a kitchen with a yellow stove and fridge. The few unpacked items looked like things she’d own, yet didn’t ring any bells. An eerie sensation settled over her—it was starting to be the most familiar thing in her life.

  “Anything?” Tom asked, and she shook her head.

  But then she caught sight of the couch in the living room off to her right—bright pink and gloriously familiar. She stepped over boxes, sat down on it, and hugged one of the black and white polka dot pillows to her chest.

  She’d been about eight or nine when her and Dad’s old couch reached the embarrassingly ratty point, the stuffing spilling out of the brown cushions. So they’d gone to the furniture store to pick out a new one. At the time, she’d loved all things pink—still did, honestly—and had flipped over this couch. Dad had wrinkled his nose, made a joke about the bright color blinding him, and then sat down and commented it was “actually comfortable.” When she’d said she wanted it, he’d bought it to make her happy, even though it didn’t match anything in the house.

  Tears lodged in her throat, and she swallowed them back, determined not to lose it. When Tom raised an eyebrow, she managed to say, “I’m just really happy to see my couch.”

  To his credit, he didn’t look at her like she’d lost her mind—which she literally had, at least part of it—but now that she had her couch, it felt like she might be able to get through it anyway. Finding her glasses or getting new ones was next on the list. She was tired of constantly squinting and everything being so fuzzy.

  She gave her pillow one more hug and then straightened. The dull ache inching across her skull meant it was time for another pill. From experience, she knew waiting too long meant suffering sharp shooting pain that took forever to go away. Hopefully in another few days she wouldn’t need them anymore. They made her even more disoriented, and she doubted that was any way to get back her missing memories.

  After filling a glass—she hoped the tap water was okay to drink—she tossed back a pill and then offered Tom a glass.

  “No thanks. I better get back to work, I’m afraid. I wish I could stay and help you get settled.” He put a hand on her shoulder, and for an awkward beat she thought he was going to hug her. She’d never been a hugger—anyway, she didn’t think she’d ever been. Maybe during the two years she couldn’t remember she habitually hugged people she barely knew. He must’ve sensed her hesitation because he dropped his arm. “Will you be all right here?”

  Cassie nodded. “I’ll be fine. And thanks. For everything.”

  “Call if you need me. I’ll contact the apartment complex your friendly landlady mentioned, explain the situation, and let you know what I find out. Honestly, I’m glad you’re moving. This is a rough neighborhood.”

  Coming from a cop, it made her extra glad she was leaving, too. It also justified the anxiety that kept tapping on her shoulder and whispering that she needed to get the hell out of here, even though she’d barely arrived.

  ***

  Vince inventoried the items on his kitchen table. Two pistols, plenty of ammo, gloves, a lock pick set, and a knife. He gathered everything except for one of the loaded guns and put them into the duffel bag with his emergency stash of cash and a change of clothes, just in case things got messy. He grabbed the remaining gun, slid it into his shoulder holster, and put his green army jacket on to cover his weapon.

  For a moment he paused, shaking his head at the situation he’d gotten himself into. What the hell am I doing?

  Over the years he’d tried his best to stay away from the shady side of Uncle Carlo’s business, focusing all his energy on running the restaurant. Occasionally he had to go rough someone up for money owed, like whenever Carlo bailed out Bobby. Bobby, who always promised this time he was going to change, only to end up in jail or some other huge mess again. He also always managed to disappear before fulfilling his end of the bargain with Carlo, leaving Vince to take care of it.

  He’d had to get his hands dirty a few times, but he’d never killed anyone. Before the incident a little over a week ago, he’d only seen one other death happen right before his eyes, and it happened to be the worst moment of his life. Anger and sorrow churned together, forming a toxic mix that’d slowly eat away at him if he let it. He quickly slammed a lid on those memories and turned back to the murder in the alley. He’d tried to talk Carlo into giving the man one last chance, but evidently chances were in short supply.

  Vince let out a long exhale, hoping it’d ease the tension coiling his muscles, but no such luck. He took one last glance around, shouldered his duffel bag, and exited his house, his booted steps echoing across the wooden porch before being swallowed up in the grass. No stars lit the night sky, the sliver of moon the only thing breaking up the darkness. A car drove by, bass bumping a steady rhythm, and then everything fell silent again.

  The top of his Jeep Rubicon was down, so he tossed his bag into the back. If he was going to be shot at, he’d prefer the hard top on, but he didn’t have time to take care of that now. Guess I better get it right and drive fast.

  He slid into the driver’s seat, still not feeling ready even after several hours of planning, rehashing, and going over every scenario he could think of.

  Cassie’s face flashed in his mind, the way it had frequently done since he’d walked into Carlo’s office and heard them talking about killing her. The pale green eyes behind those black-framed glasses, the blond hair, the shy smile she always flashed him before surprising him with a witty retort. Usually he did all the hiring, so when Carlo had informed him he’d taken care of hiring a new waitress, Vince had expected a pretty but stupid girl without much experience. The pretty part was right, but the rest wasn’t even close.

  Not only was Cassie their most reliable employee, she was also smart and sweet. Was it any wonder he’d found excuses to chat with her whenever he could? That he’d sometimes stand back and watch her move between the tables, then experience a pinch of jealousy over her talking to and grinning at the customers, because he wanted to be on the other side of the conversation?

  He’d nearly asked her out a dozen times, but then he would remember who he was and how sweet she was, and he’d force the foolish idea right out of his head. Regret rose up and wrapped suffocating tentacles around his lungs. Maybe if I’d asked her out…

  No going there. Nothing could change the past. All he could do now was make sure she didn’t get taken out by any of the lowlifes his uncle would hire. She deserved better.

  She deserved better than him, too, but sometimes you just had to choose the least awful option.

  Of all people, why’d it have to be Cassie? Rage filled him, and he slammed the steering wheel with his palms. He took a second to calm down, told himself once again that there was no other way, and then started the Jeep and made the turn onto the path there was no coming back from.

  Chapter Five

  “McVee,” Jim said, answering the ringing phone on his desk and nearly tipping over what was left of his now-cold coffee.

  “It’s Lucy, the nurse from the hospital. I’m calling about the girl.”

  Jim straightened, the dangling carrot of information he desperately needed just out of reach. The nurse had promised to keep him in the loop about the blond waitress, although it’d taken a lot of convincing on his part, even after flashing the FBI badge and implying she didn’t really have a choice. “You mean Cassandra Dalton?”

  “Yeah. She woke up.”

  He allowed himself a small celebratory fist pump. He’d been watching Carlo Rossi for nearly six months, and the longer the case dragged on without enough solid evidence to arrest the bastard, the more frustrated he became. Two weeks ago, he’d gotten a tip that something might be going down at Rossi’s restaurant. The usual array of thugs had shown up, unlike his partner who’d called in sick again. Jim could remember plenty of times he’d been sick, yet he
always managed to make it in. That was what was wrong with kids these days—shitty work ethic.

  He’d been sitting in his car a few blocks away from the restaurant, wondering if he should attempt to get closer, when the blond waitress barreled out the front doors. He recognized her immediately; he’d been talking to one of the female detectives about trying to turn her into a source. Cassandra was the only person on the payroll who wasn’t family or dating a member.

  Something about her wild movements made every one of his nerves prick up. Without checking for traffic, she darted into the street.

  Jim had grabbed for the door handle, thinking, Lady, you’re not going to make it, but he was too late. The blond head disappeared under the truck and then too many people showed up to risk going over to check on her—a blown cover wouldn’t help anyone.

  I’m sure she had a good reason for sprinting out of the building like that. It’s time I find out what it was. He stood, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. “I’ll be there in a few,” he said into the phone.

  “Actually, she woke up a few days ago… I was off this week, so I came in and found out they’d already released her.”

  He swore under his breath. Why hadn’t Lucy mentioned she wouldn’t be there? He could’ve tried to talk to another nurse. Of course the more people he talked to, the higher the risk of being exposed. Rossi had sources everywhere, and he couldn’t let himself forget that. The last guy made that mistake, and he’d disappeared, months’ worth of undercover work gone with him. It’d made Carlo and his crew even more suspicious of new people, and they hadn’t been able to implant anyone in their inner circle since.

  “What’s her address, then?” Jim asked. “I want to drop in and see what she can tell me.”

  “That’s the problem,” Lucy said. “I talked to another nurse to see what I could find out before I called, and it turns out, she has amnesia. Doesn’t remember a thing from the past two years.”

  Jim used his fingers to put pressure on his temples. The one good thing that’d happened all day and it was quickly going downhill. “Does the doctor think she’ll get her memory back?”

  “There’s no way of knowing, but she took a hard blow to the head. If you go in and push her, you might make it worse, and you’ll probably just scare her. This was why I worried about talking to you in the first place. People need time to recover, and my loyalty is to my patients.”

  Yeah, and bad guys need to be put away before they hurt anyone else. Jim sank back into his chair, a heavy side of defeat pressing him further down. “I hear you.” Didn’t mean he was ruling out talking to Cassandra, not when she could be the key to his case. “Thanks for the information. If anything else comes up, you’ll call?”

  “Sure,” she said, but she didn’t sound sure, so he wouldn’t bet on it. He hung up and scrubbed a hand over his face. Honestly, he probably wanted Cassandra Dalton’s accident to be more than it was. He was getting desperate, and that led to grasping at straws. He needed hard evidence on something more than petty theft to ensure an open and shut case.

  Another team of agents was tailing Carlo’s capos, the made men who worked directly under him and kept their own group of flunkeys in line. If any of them slipped up, they’d be carted into jail and offered a deal—rat or rot. A few might choose to rot, and that was fine by him. At least it would put one more criminal behind bars.

  It needed to be soon, though, because as much as he hated to admit it, he was getting old. More gray was creeping into what used to be brown hair, and the long hours were getting harder to maintain.

  I’ll retire soon and take a long overdue vacation—or whatever it’s called when it’s a break from nothing.

  Just as soon as Carlo Rossi and his boys are in jail. He needed to retire on a win. His last case had been win in theory, but since the bad guy had killed seven women before Jim took him down, it hadn’t felt that way. He wanted to stop bad guys before countless victims piled up. Wanted the streets to be safer so he’d be okay with leaving them to other people to keep that way.

  Jim tapped his fingers on his desk, then turned to his computer and pulled up Cassandra Dalton’s information. All her family’s gone, so no ties. No other people for Rossi to threaten to keep her quiet. She would’ve made a good informant.

  He’d watch the restaurant and see if she came back. Although, the thought of waiting for however long that’d be bothered him.

  So he scribbled down the address, just in case, and then stood and stretched. His bones popped, an unneeded reminder of his age. Then he left the office, got into his car, and hesitated at the first street light, still unsure if he should make a right or left.

  ***

  Cassie pushed the too small pink frames up her nose and spread out the faded quilt. A beautiful pattern of blue and yellow squares in varying prints made up the queen-size blanket.

  Okay, so these glasses totally squeeze my brain, but at least I can see. The visually-impaired search through her bedroom had unearthed the old frames, and she thanked her lucky stars she’d found them, despite how ugly and out-of-style they were. They took her back to her junior high days of being called four-eyes and caring enough to go home and cry to Dad about it.

  The lenses were outdated enough to not be as sharp as the last pair she remembered owning, but there was that whole beggars and choosers thing, and at least they made it easier to pack the last of her belongings.

  She’d recognized a few items as she went through the closet, including several pieces of her wardrobe. Even the new clothes pretty much looked like the old ones; she was never one to take a fashion risk, most of them were conservative, neutral, and what she referred to as classics, because that sounded better than boring.

  She tugged on the earpieces of her glasses, trying to get another inch of room without breaking them. Ugly or not, at least she’d been bold enough in junior high to take a risk with the pink.

  Waking up in a hospital, lost and confused, with no friends to greet her—even if she wouldn’t have remembered them—made her think it was time to make a change. To take risks. Be bolder. Make friends. Have a couple of adventures. Life was short, and while she’d never minded being alone all that much before, it dug at her now. It felt like everything in her life reflected loneliness back at her, showing her she was missing more than memories.

  I’m going to change that.

  Knowing herself the way she did, it’d take baby steps.

  Maybe eventually I’ll become more like Mom was. Cassie ran her fingers over the line of stitches on the quilt, thinking about how much time it must’ve taken to piece the fabric together and loving the few “mistake” squares that didn’t go with the rest of the pattern. The pink couch reminded her of Dad, and the patchwork bedspread was her link to Mom.

  Nearly every one of Dad’s stories about Mom made it clear that she marched to the beat of her own drum. Cassie always wished she was more like her—but at the same time, she liked that she and Dad had so much in common.

  Still, it was time to stop holding back and put herself out there. Her mind flashed to the stack of medical bills she’d found. Her risk-taking might be slightly hampered by her budget, and finding a job was imperative, but she vowed to do more with the hours she wasn’t working. And silver lining, the amount due showed she’d at least taken a minor bite out of the staggering sum these past few years. That couldn’t have been easy while paying for college.

  Go me.

  Speaking of college, tomorrow she’d go to the TCNJ campus and see if she could salvage anything. Maybe her brain would recall her classes, even if she didn’t remember taking them. Even if she needed a semester off to get her educational feet back under her, so to speak, she’d find a way to jump back in as soon as possible.

  Cassie lifted the frame that held a picture of her and Dad on one side and Mom and Dad on the other. She ran her finger over her parents’ faces. “I’m going to try to make both of you proud. Be bold and get my degree. Go on some adventures and e
ventually find someone, the way you guys found each other. I need some happy stories to mix in with the tragic ones.” She set the picture aside, then took off her glasses and sat them next to it. Despite it being early for bedtime, she lay back on the blanket, completely exhausted from her afternoon and in severe need of rest.

  Sleep tugged at her, promising to take away her worries, but right as it started to pull her under, a knock on the door startled her awake. She sat up, completely disoriented as she blinked at her fuzzy surroundings, trying to ground herself with where she was. Eventually she’d get used to her current life, right?

  She reached over to where she’d left her glasses, patting the area and trying to find them so she’d be able to see whoever was at the door.

  Chapter Six

  After knocking on the door to apartment fifty-four, Vince stepped to the side so whoever came to answer—Cassie or the cop escort who might still be with her—wouldn’t see him before he got a chance to make a move. He reached inside his jacket and gripped the handle of his pistol.

  This is the worst fucking idea I’ve ever had. Bad ideas used to be his specialty, so that was saying something. He tried not to think about how much time he’d get for taking out a cop. Last resort only.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  He hadn’t seen any sign of someone watching the apartment. Not even unmarked cars with cops pretending to be regular people who just liked to sit for hours behind the wheel. It’d be really convenient if she was alone, but he doubted he’d get that lucky. Not after what Cassie had seen. They should have a swarm of cops watching the place.

  After two or three tense minutes that made a cold sweat break out across his forehead, he took out his lock pick set and, as quietly as possible, inserted the torque wrench. He slid the pick into the keyhole with his other hand, applied pressure on the wrench, and raked the pins, searching for the correct alignment.

  Every couple of seconds he paused to listen for movement behind the door. When there was nothing, he moved to the next pin. Breaking and entering used to be a hobby. While he’d tried to turn his life around, it was too late to un-teach his brother the same skills. Of course there’d been no way of knowing Bobby would turn to harder crimes and drugs—first dealing, and then mostly using—but Vince felt responsible all the same. That was the reason he could never leave him in jail, or let the bookies and dealers he owed take him out. He’d spread the word that anyone who hurt Bobby would have to deal with retaliation from him personally, and luckily he had enough cred for people to take the threat to heart. Bobby would always be his little brother, out-of-control addict or not.