Bad Behavior(61)

I didn't like her tone, the finality of it. I wanted to rush home and make sure she was there. But the sinking feeling in my chest told me she was already gone.

She took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. "But I do have some terms. Wood, pick up the receiver."

"Are you sure there isn't more you'd like to say to Lin-"

"God damn it, Wood, don't make this any harder than it already is." A muffled sob shot through the speaker.

I reached for the phone, but Wood snagged it first. He lifted it to his ear.

I strained to hear her, to get some sense of what she was telling him. I couldn't hear anything except the hum of her voice.

He held my gaze, giving a "yes" or an "uh-huh" here and there.

"Great minds think alike. Right, five years." After a while he frowned, something she said not sitting well with him. "That's not going to be easy, Evan."

Her voice grew louder, but I still couldn't make out the words.

"Okay, okay, okay," Wood gave in. "You got it, just give me the details."

She quieted down. Wood once again repeated his assent here and there.

I couldn't focus on anything else. Just her, the tenuous grip I'd had on her disappearing right out of my hands.

"I think we have a deal. Take care of yourself, Evan." Wood hung up the phone. His friendly brown eyes held solace for me. I didn't want it.

I felt the rage rising to the surface, ready to do some damage. If I had been as foolhardy as I was a decade before, I'd have committed a felony right then and there.

As it was, I slammed my fists down on his desk. "Where is she?"

"She's gone, Lincoln."

"Where?"

"I can't say."

"If you don't tell me where she went right this fucking moment, I am going to tear this fucking office apart." I meant every word.

Wood held up his hands. "This is the only way that she can be safe, Lincoln. The only way. Think. Think. You know she's right. The less we know, the better. She has to start over."

I sank down, my knees giving way as I collapsed back into one of Wood's chairs. "I can't just let her go."

"You have to."

"I won't."

"She told me to tell you something."

I looked up, hoping it was some sort of a breadcrumb trail that would lead me to her. "What?"

"She said she'll always be your angel."





Chapter Thirteen


I let the blow land, felt the sting of pain that shot along my jaw. I struck out hard with my right, answering with power launched from my back.

He wobbled, stunned. Through my one good eye, I saw the opening I needed. One swift uppercut with my left, and my bloodied opponent lay sprawled on the ground. Glass jaw. He curled over onto his side in the fetal position as the crowd around us roared, some with glee, some with the unhappiness of money bet and lost.

I wasn't in this for the money. I was in it for the pain, giving and receiving.



       
         
       
        

Evan was gone. I hadn't been able to trace her. Wood had talked me down again and again from trying to find her. He told me I had more important things-like breaking the crime racket-and that I had to let it lie. To let her go. I couldn't. But she was too smart. Gone. Her apartment held no clues. The documents we'd recovered from the storage unit gave no insight into her, other than the notepads and notepads of detailed information.

I spent my days wading through information, speaking with private detectives and informants. I set my sights on DiSalvo, but I had plenty of other fish to fry along the way.

Wood had assigned Jonesy to work with me, the cases becoming too myriad for me to handle on my own. He didn't pry, didn't bring up Evan. Wood had told him the score. We worked together far better than I would have predicted. He was even more detail-conscious than I was, teasing out bits of information to get the whole picture. Our cases were rolling right along, building to indictments and then ending with guilty pleas or trials. Only a few months in, we had taken down a handful of lower-level criminals, given them plea deals to get information on the higher-ups.

Evan's notes led the way. I became so familiar with her writing style, wispy print, that I felt like I could serve as an expert witness on her handwriting should the need ever arise. I hadn't realized she'd been a doodler. She didn't seem the artistic sort.

I would pore over her information, the copious details of her clients' misdeeds covering line after line. Dark, dirty, treacherous renderings. But off to the side, maybe when she'd had a brief reprieve from the tales of wrongdoing, would be a dove, a clock tower, or a tree.